# • b l o o d • ## a story of magic | | London; 1839 In the grimy backwaters of the London and Southeastern Canal Network, ugly rumours are afoot of people going missing among the barges. Strange figures lurk in unlit streets and whispers of supernatural powers fill the air. The city’s merchants are constantly on the lookout for thieves trying to steal from their sloops and barges. It’s a troubled place… but a good place to hide if you need not be seen. Featuring: Delton: A young man seeking to hide his true nature from the world -# [ @Bee (Tav: Delton) ] Loris: A man who has travelled thousands of miles to be caught in a web of deceit -# [ @Scram ( durge: Dreuer ) ] Also featuring an ensemble cast of characters

In the thick dark of the foggy night, distant gaslights hissed their orangey glow through muted mist. Glinting like fireflies unable to shed enough light onto the deep black waters below. The drone of the traction engine is the only sound that thuds through the darkness, the trickle of water along the bowsides almost non existent. The barge primarily carries coal in slumped piles along the deck, but huddled in the meagre cabin are other, more valuable items. Boxes of contraband, mainly, being quietly trafficked into the centre of London. Gold, Ivory and Jade from across the sea. There are also people. Huddled away from the fog and from prying eyes. People looking to get away from… Well. Anything. The bargeman asks no questions, just takes a few shillings from each in payment and works his way through the water, the city’s lifeblood, to some new place. A place of promise or ruin, that’s not for him to say. Each lost soul’s fortune rests in their own hands… and the hands of fate herself.

Delton Naïlo is many things. He's learned out to hide in plain sight, using his blazing red hair as another form of subterfuge. Who would ever expect the man that stands out so acutely to be the man with so many secrets? On the barge, Delton keeps to himself. Pleasant, but not extroverted. He doesn't try to draw attention to himself. Doing so is just asking for people to ask questions. All he has is his summons to become an alienest for the Anglican Church. They need to be able to determine whether someone is sick or possessed, after all. The irony in that, of course, is that the man determining that should be headed for the pyre himself.

The barge turns along the canal into a thick-sided pass, surrounded with tangled scrub. The towpath is too overgrown for horses, the way made by industrial shipping alone these days. At the end is a lock that takes the boat down, and from here the canal towpath opens. Now, both sides of the canal are towered over by red brick and steel warehouses, smoke whorling from chimney stacks into the fog to make it even more impenetrable. The sound of horseshoes on cobblestones rings like a bell over the top of the noise of the engine. “Are there highwaymen?” A young woman asks, huddled under a blanket. “Don’t be daft.” The bargeman grunts. “Those’re just ghost stories.” But the clatter of hooves is ominous, and the lack of any visible horses is troubling still. There’s a tremendous thud as the bow of the barge comes into hard contact with something solid in the dark. Coal tumbles from its hills into the dark water with a “ploop” and the bargeman barely keeps to his feet. The hooves grow louder and male laughter rings through the air. It seems the young woman’s fears were well founded. There are highwaymen.

Well, there goes a quiet trip to London. Delton sighs, eyes searching the dark for any indication of where the robbers are. He didn't carry much with him, fortunately. His adoptive parents weren't keen on him going to London in the first place, much less carrying enough to make him a target. He's set up shop in the far shadows, a hood over his hair to cover his hair and darkening his face in shadows, the attached cloak covering his limbs. To most people, it would likely appear like he was asleep. But, really? It's a means of hiding his true abilities, if it is necessary to use them. The fog and darkness only served to help him with that.

Their faces are covered, their horses an excited clamour as they swiftly surround the barge. The ringleader has a sweeping black ponytail, tanned skin a d keen green eyes. A burn scar shaped like a bird is visible on his cheek from below the line of his mask. His voice is clearly entertained and very well spoken as he points his gun at the bargeman.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen! Terribly sorry to cause a delay to your journey this evening.” He calls, his grin glinting in his eyes. “So hand over the cargo, and my friends and I will be on our way. No one need be harmed.”

Delton subtly shifts his face to glance at the highwaymen, trying to get a read on them. He's fully aware this barge is shuttling contraband. There's no other reason for the fare to be so cheap. He's just been hoping that none of that contraband is people. Specifically, people who don't have a say. The women on the deck seem terrified, their men folk doing a poor job of shielding them from the action. If the bargeman's smart, he won't make any sudden moves. They don't know who they're dealing with, after all. God only knows, however, who the bargeman owes that he's carrying such obviously illicit cargo. Desperate men are stupid men.

“I ain’t givin’ you nothin’!” The bargeman, unfortunately, is not smart. “You bloody chancers have been robbin’ good folk blind fer too long you ain’t seeing penny one from me.” There’s a rumble of laughter from the highwaymen.

“Oh… do forgive my laughter sir but you are hilarious.” The ringleader speaks again. “I’m afraid we are not chancers. We are professionals. Now be a good chap and pass over that opium you have hidden under those poor passengers of yours.”

There’s a murmur of mistrust among the other smuggled people.

The tallest of the group moves forward on his heavy horse, the feathered hooves suggesting that the creature has seen more of farm life than this new found criminal enterprise. The man astride the horse is a wall of muscle beneath a shroud of black hair. He says nothing, but his stature is intimidating enough.

A woman squeaks as the bargeman lunges to pick up a rifle. He had brought it with him, just in case. But he’s not quick enough. A pistol shot from the green eyed leader strikes through the top of his foot and sends him howling to his knees. The woman who first squeaked now screams.

“That was unfortunate… now. Come along, dear travellers. See if you can find me some lovely opium.” He addresses the little huddled crowd, his eyes shifting through the vulnerable until they meet someone staring back at him. Unafraid. Fascinating.

Delton's been caught, his eyes immediately shifting away from the highwaymen. His curiosity would be his downfall, Mum said. She's likely going to be proven right. His eyes flick through the crowd, most of whom are frozen in fear. Under his cloak, he moves his hands at the same time as he speaks under his breath. It's his maternal tongue. One he swore to Mum and Pa' he'd forgotten. He'd lied. A trapdoor swings open, as if a ghost had possessed it. Screams can be heard throughout the deck. In the chaos, he moves forward, seeing if the bastard can be saved. The bargeman may be stupid, but Delton couldn't live with himself if he didn't try at least.

The bargeman, for all his wailing, is not gravely injured. The shot travelled through his boot, through his foot and out the other side. Still he rolls around, his clothes and skin blotted black by coal dust as he clutches his toes and howls. The scatter of bodies from the deck begin to clamber onto the towpath, through horses legs and making a break for the dark. Yells go up from the highwaymen.

A man at the back of the gang dismounts and quickly clambers over coal to push through the exodus of travellers. The gaslight flashes on his bald head as he crams himself quickly into the trapdoor compartment.

“Quick- quickly now!” The ringleader is swift to follow, leaping from his saddle to jump nimbly onto the deck, his oil coat brushing the back of his boots. He tuts at the bargeman. “Oh come along it’s only a little hole in your foot, man.” He says. As if he isn’t the one who shot him. “Is it there?”

“It’s here… there’s money here as well, look. Paper bills.” The bald man holds up a handful of bank notes.

“Good show. We’ll take it all. Don’t tell the boss about the money I believe we’ve earned that, lads.”

There’s a murmur of assent from the group.

Delton grabs a length of cloth - likely something dropped by the travelers in their hustle - and rips it in three. He balls two of the lengths up, pressing them against the wound until the bargeman screams even louder, then presses the bastard's foot to the deck on top of it. This frees up his hand to use the final length to wrap around the foot and keep the bandages in place. He's not a miracle worker, but it should prevent the man from meeting his end via the most unimpressive gunshot wound possible. He stands with his uncanny grace in the face of such dure circumstances, something that made becoming an alienest seem like the most sensible option. After all, he hasn't met a patient who's managed to scare him yet. He slinks back into the shadows, seeking to disappear as much as possible and using the gloom of the night to his advantage.

He spots the man again. All the other lost souls on the boat ran for the hills as soon as they could but this one? Yes… very interesting.

“Corvid, we’re good let’s move.” The last of the money and wrapped parcels of opium are moved on. With cat like grace the bald man jumps to shore and swings himself back into the saddle.

the man names Corvid sweeps his hat from his head and offers a bow. “Gentlemen it’s been a pleasure doing business with you this fine evening.” He says in his most charming tone. “There is no shame in losing your wares this way good bargeman. Tell your masters that The Jackdaws send their very best regards… and perhaps next time they wish to smuggle ruin into this city they will pay Mr Hawke his due for the trouble.” He steps backwards onto the towpath and swings himself into the saddle. “As for you…” his gaze once again finds the refugee, lurking in the dark. “… it would be a good idea with such fine talents as yours to stay out of trouble. Be lucky.” “Onward lads!”

They are quick, a flurry of hooves loud in the proximate fog as it pushes inwards. As they charge away the sound become quiet quickly, insulated by the turbid night. The barge creaks against the blockage left in the canal. Unmoving, and protesting about it.

Damn it all. To be honest, he wasn't subtle enough about the whole endeavor. Delton had just wanted no one else to get hurt. And the people frozen in fear weren't doing anything, so he figured a little magic may help. He departs the boat after the highwaymen scatter, unsure what to do. Chasing after a group of them seems like a recipe for death. But not? Well, he doesn't know what the man called 'Corvid' saw of his face. And the knowledge he has could doom Delton forever. He hopes the morning will bring clarity and maybe more clues.

By morning the fog has lifted, replaced with a light, cold rain that drums down on cobbled streets and on the grey water of the canal. Dockers work to unblock the waterway, freeing the coal barge rammed fast by the robbers’ barricade. Police officers murmured their curious theories at the water’s edge but, at the end of they day, nothing will come of this. This was Mr Hawke’s canal. Best to leave this mess for him to clear up. Mr Hawke was a tall, refined man in a long leather tailcoat with tan breeches tucked into his riding boots. While his fellows wore tall hats he preferred a cap, and he smoked a pipe as he considered the blockage. “I’ll speak with the lads.” He says with a strong Westcountry accent. There are nods from police and dockworkers alike. He turns and walks through the warehouses to a local pub. Dealing with the robbery, it seems, can wait until after breakfast.

Delton's conspicuous nature serves to make him even less noticeable. He seems like a concerned passerby, with his fashionable dark coat and light breeches, his red hair partially obscured by a cap. It seems he and Mr. Hawke were of one mind on that. Though Delton's goal was to not bring attention to his rather delicate stature. The effects of long-term malnutrition, after all, didn't disappear. But, once again, curiosity would be what killed him. The Naïlos had tried their best to stem it, channel it to things that wouldn't put him in danger. Make him a proper educated chap who didn't need to explore flights of fancy. Becoming an alienist wasn't their ideal, of course, but the sanction from the Church made them happy, their now-oldest son getting the approval from such an institution. They had made him an educated man, but never quite managed to convince him of the merits of settling for the mundane. Noting Mr. Hawke's name was spoken by that 'Corvid' the night before, he decides to follow. He falls into step with some fellow onlookers, chatting casually about the goings-on in London and deciding to take breakfast at the same pub. After all, he's new here. Might as well do as the locals do.

The pub is alive with the loud bicker of dockworkers, all clustered and clamouring around a great serving table of eggs and bacon. They part as Mr Hawke enters, removing his cap and nodding politely as he takes tea with a glug of whiskey from the bar. He has a booth in the corner which, it would seem, is reserved for him. Dockworkers crowd forwards but he holds up his hand and politely asks for space. After his breakfast he begins to take guests at his table. One by one he assigns the men their tasks for the day. New faces are greeted with a warm handshake. An elderly man so soot-stained his clothes appear entirely black has a long conversation about the coal for the steel mill. Mr Hawke allays his fears with a calm handshake. A handful of bank notes are handed over from Hawke’s own pocket for a wheel repair, a man on the verge of tears recounting the tale of his wife’s declining health is calmly given the name of a doctor. “Tell ‘em who sent you, you’ll be right.”

Delton sips his tea and watches the man out of the corner of his eye. It seems like Mr. Hawke is rather hands-on, knowing his workers personally. Why would the man arrange for the robbery of one of the ships that occupy his canal? It seems an awful lot of work for him. He supposes it's easier, in a way, for him to do that. Prevents competitors from trying to utilize his canals. Means he knows everything going in and out. But that doesn't tell him anything about the highwaymen.

Hawke has his ear to the ground well, it isn’t long until his gaze finds Delton in the crowd. A man he hasn’t seen on his waterways before. He holds his gaze and crook a finger, nodding to the empty chair opposite as he takes a drink from his teacup.

Delton sighs slightly, picking up his tea and cap to head over to the empty chair. Frankly, he just wants information, not discussion. He's far from home and unfamiliar with the way this blasted city works.

“Yer a new face, eh?” Hawke leans back. He has a gaze that draws over the man. He knows the look of hunger. He can spot a refugee from a mile away. It’s how he makes a living. “Have y’eaten?” He nods to the breakfast the workers are tucking into.

Delton had not eaten. Not since yesterday. The Naïlos are landed gentry, could have afforded to sent him in a stagecoach, especially with his letter from the Church. But, he didn't want to draw that attention. The more of a fuss you cause, the more questions people ask. And he's already playing with fire in the career he's in. So he'd left in a rush, able to store some meagre belongings in his bag. He knows he has more money than most of the refugees combined on his person, but it wouldn't do to advertise that. Plus, for all intents and purposes, he's Irish. It's easy enough to ignore Mum's Moorish roots because of her beauty and marriage to a powerful man. But that power is limited. It's not going to help him in London. Frankly, he feared that it would make him more of a target. The Irish bastard of an African whore. Just one of the things that haunted his childhood, despite not being a bastard and Mairwen Naïlo holding more class than all of his schoolmates combined. His letter didn't contain this, of course, but Mum and Pa were always good at reading between the lines. "No, sir. I haven't."

“Get yerself something to eat, lad.” he says with a nod. “Fill that belly’a yours.” Mr Hawke has made a fortune from the misfortunes of others. Turning desperate hands to working steel and iron for a chance not to starve. He was not picky about blood or ancestry… just the strength of a man’s back and his worth as a labourer. That is where Hawke placed his value. He watches this newcomer closely. The workforce are thinning out as breakfasts are finished and men turn to their duties across the dockyard.

Delton watches Mr. Hawke carefully, knowing he's being sized up. He's not here to be a labourer, not here to put more money into anyone's pockets. He's here to try and protect himself. London's an easy place to become just another face in. And he meant to just pass through here. But he needs to make sure that a criminal doesn't have anything on him. He has no intention of taking a handout, for he doesn't need one. And he knows men like Hawke. You don't want to owe them a favor. He stands, but goes up to the bar to figure out how much a meal would cost.

The bar is occupied by one other man. Handsome but already deep into a bottle of grain alcohol before most folks have even begun their work day. He seems to be a permanent fixture. A few say hello to him as they pass. He has long dark hair that shrouds his face and his skin is darker than most. He doesn’t look up as Delton steps up to the bar, but he does speak. “You should have taken my advice and made a run for it. Men with your talents are best kept out of trouble.”

Delton doesn't look directly at the man, studying the stranger out of the corner of his eye. "I've no interest in trouble. Just passing through until I can acquire transport to London," he waves down the barkeep and pays for a meal and another cuppa. He pushes his hair back from his face, his pale skin a stark contrast to the blazing red. He stands out just as much as a foreigner as the man next to him, if not treated as horribly for it. "Waiting for another boat or a cheap enough stage carriage, s'all."

“Don’t take anything he offers you.” He says from the corner of his mouth. “Put your hand to your stomach, feign illness, and head for the door.”

Delton traces the grain of the bar with his fingers before saying out of the corner of his mouth, "I wasn't planning to. That's why I ordered separately. But if you think I should go despite that..." He doesn't trust this man as far as he can throw him. But there's a sort of comradery in being an immigrant here. To someone like Mr. Hawke, it doesn't matter if you're from India or Ireland. He feeds off desperation. And immigrants are among the most desperate.

“I think you should shift your arse before he even sees you speak to me now get a move on.” The man’s words are hissed out, lifting his glass to his face to hide the motion of his lips as he knocks back the last of the whiskey. He gets to his feet.

“Mr Corvid, a word.” Mr Hawke calls.

Corvid stops, closing his eyes. “Lord give me strength… *yes?*Forgive me sir as far as I’m aware my night shift is over and there’s a delightful barmaid waiting who will probably miss me.” There’s no one waiting for him except his horse, but may as well keep up his reputation.

Delton's fingers drum on the bar, going from casual to frantic. He starts coughing into his elbow and waves off the barkeep, rubbing his stomach. He quickly moves toward the door, feigning a gag. A stranger from a rural town getting sick in London smog isn't unheard of. Nor is the potential of unpotable water or spoiled food.

His passage is uninhibited. Corvid is a good distraction for Mr Hawke, and outside is a tangle of dockworkers. Easy to get lost in. At the end of the canal stands the banks of the river, and the rising tower of St Mary Le Bow church. The city of London is loud, noisy and smelly. Oh… and rainy.

Delton grew up in the quiet of a rural estate. The son of a man who controlled the timber production of the surrounding area. He was privileged in that and likely to inherit his adoptive father's right to vote. For all intents and purposes, he's a legal Englishman. In reality, he'd never be. But the noise of London makes his ears ring, the smell nearly making his eyes water. He knew it would be quite the shock coming from the clean air of the countryside and the ability to get lost in the quiet of the surrounding lands. But the knowing is different than the experiencing. He keeps himself as camouflaged as possible, hair tucked up into his cap. Another reason he preferred the style.

Through the din, the clamour of life, he is being followed. Not by Mr Hawke or by Mr Corvid, but by a tall figure in a long hooded coat, huddled away from the rain. The figure’s attempts at being sly and unseen are not terribly good.

Delton knows he's being followed immediately. You don't survive life with as many secrets as Delton if you're not perceptive. He catches sight of the man in the reflection of the water, noting that he turned when Delton turned. He stopped when Delton stopped. He found himself doing some strange maneuvers - not so strange to be conspicuous, mind - to ensure that it wasn't some coincidence. When he realizes that he is definitely being followed, he tries to duck down a less populated walkway, hoping to lose him when he has more room to move. -# Perception: 22

The man is far too tall to be inconspicuous. His evident non-english heritage and distinctive facial tattoos also do not help. He looks, should Delton catch sight of him, rather like a skittish young deer following a grass snake through a cornfield.

Delton slows, seemingly looking around for something, like he's lost. Eventually, he falls into step with the bigger man. "Well what do you happen to be doing on this fine day, sir?" He recognizes the man from last night. It's almost impossible not to.

“I eur-…” He is immediately awkward. His stride falters. He’s not a hunter or stalker, he never has been. He’s happier in open forest than a scrabble of people and buildings. “… walking.” He says quietly. He doesn’t quite know where to go now, having been following Delton and having no real heading of his own.

Delton tilts his head, eyebrows slightly raising. This is whom was sent to follow him? Seems an odd choice. "Seems we were headed in the same direction. We can continue on together, yes?" His eyes study the man out of the corner of his eye. Just because Delton finds him an odd choice for a tail, doesn't mean there isn't things he's unaware of. He's always aware that one misstep could cost him his freedom...or his life.

“… yes?” He keeps walking, towards the river with no other real destination. “… I was told to keep an eye on you.”

Delton hums, a pleasant smile on his face. It wouldn't do to have people studying them too closely. "And, who, may I ask, gave you this direction?" Mr. Hawke seems likely. Unfortunate, but likely. However, the mongul doesn't have anything on him. At least he hopes so, considering Corvid's warning to get out as quickly as possible.

“… No one.” He had promised Corvid he wouldn’t give him away, but Loris is a terrible liar. He always has been. “Just… no-… wait it was…” He can’t think of anything. He knows four languages and can’t think in any of them. “He hoa.” Is all he settles on. Māori… not even his own tongue but his mind is struggling to say something, anything other than Corvid.

The Naïlos had put him through his paces with education growing up. Mathematics, the sciences, languages upon languages to make him forget his native tongue. It didn't work, but showed him he had a knack for picking them up. Latin, French, Spanish, Mum's dialect of Arabic. But he doesn't recognize that one. It sounds completely foreign to his ears - potentially how Irish would sound to the man next to him. Delton cracks his neck, "Well, friend, I have two theories on who you'd be sent by. Considering the fact that your so hesitant to say anything, I'd assume you're rather loyal to him, yes?" There's less dockworkers here, more ability to speak freely. But, he's used to speaking in implications more than facts. It's the game he's played for a long time.

“I am. I will always be loyal to my leader.” He says it as if it should be obvious. “You should not leave this part of the city yet.” He says, stretching out a hand to stop him.

His leader? Delton supposes that would indicate Mr. Corvid, rather than Mr. Hawke. A person doesn't tend to be that loyal to an employer - especially not one with seemingly such selfish intentions. Of course, he can't be sure. But Corvid told a complete stranger to get out of there while Hawke seemed happy to try to get Delton caught in his web. "And why should I do that, friend? Considering I do have to get to my own occupations soon." Not really. He gave himself plenty of time, after all.

“He wants to speak with you.” He can’t be honest, not here, not aloud. His brown eyes widen desperately. “Stay. He wants to speak, because… of something he saw.”

Delton curses himself for being a sucker for such honesty. This man could be utterly fooling him, but his heart says he isn't. "Fine. But I'd prefer not to wait in the open, if it all means the same to you. Too many prying eyes." But he'll be ready for this to go south at any moment.

“We have a safe house… you can follow me. If you want.” Oh thank god. Thank god he didn’t make a run for it. Loris, as his name suggests, is not a fast runner.

Delton inclines in his head in what seems like agreement, gesturing for the other man to lead the way.

The man oscillates awkwardly for a moment as if he doesn’t quite know his way, but soon enough he makes for the towpath once more to find his way back along the canal.

This stretch of water is quiet, the rain trickles from the sodden bank on the other side into the murky grey depths. It would be an opportune spot for a murder. There’s an empty grain store, into which Loris turns. It’s dusty and cold but it appears to have been built into a rudimentary house within. There is an area for boots and overcoats, a stash of ale and whiskey and rum.

Loris moves forwards, in through the dusty light. There are sounds that suggest there are others here, laughter rising from behind a thin wooden wall. “Less open.” Loris says with a nod. “Is that… alright?”

Delton tilts his head and keeps a tight grip on his pack. He's not keen on this situation, but it seems an awful lot of work to lure him back to this place. "I suppose..." He bites back anything more, unwilling to let his nerves let his mouth get away from him.

“Do you… need… anything?” The man looks. Well. Afraid, if anything. Behind his eyes a thousand thoughts are racing but none of them can be seen. “I hope… we did not scare you when… the barge thing.”

This man really got into the wrong business. Fear? He wasn't afraid when the men took the barge. Frankly, he was surprised it took that long for someone to stop the boat. And it takes a lot more than to frighten him. When your life is illegal, it makes you much harder to shake. "No, thank you. I'm fine. It's alright." He doesn't know why he's soothing this man, but it feels a little bit like he's kicking a puppy. Like one wrong word will send him spiraling.

“Alright. I am… I will get tea. My name is Loris.” He presses a palm to his chest with what he hopes is an understanding smile. He shrugs off his coat, giving it a shake before hanging it by the door. His shirt is damp beneath, clinging to his well muscled arms.

Delton shifts a little, keeping his coat on. His eyes stray to Loris' arms for a moment but he immediately starts rifling through his pack. "Delton. Thank you." He's not going to give out more information until he knows what's going on.

He considers offering more for a minute but it feels deeply awkward. So he moves on without an invitation to the guest, into the belly of the makeshift house.

“Hey, Loris, what are you doing back?” The bald man, dark-skinned with a thick well groomed beard, sits at a well scrubbed wooden table eating a bowl of porridge. “I thought you were following that bloke? Captain’s orders?”

“Yes… I was but I brought him here.” Loris replies. “It is easier to watch someone if they are in your home no?”

The bald man immediately laughs. “Ah yeah… good joke. Seriously where is the guy?”

Delton is very tempted to make a run for it. He's glancing toward the door warily, worried about what's going to happen. Delton, you're such an idiot. Hopefully, Mum's predictions won't come true today.

Loris looks… well. Sheepish. “I brought him here. He seems very polite.”

There is a long pause and the man exhales heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Loris remember when we all agreed that this place would be unknown to all? Even Hawke? That includes men you think are very polite.”

“hmm.” Loris doesn’t quite get it, so he doesn’t comment. He has always seen the good in people, and refuses to believe anyone as sour to the core. Delton, he is quite sure, is no villain.

Delton drums his fingers against his thigh, feeling like he's being tested or something. Maybe it really was Hawke Loris was referring to. And wouldn't that be just his luck.

“Where is he now?”

“Oh… he is over there.” Loris points back to the door.

Jacob looks over. “Oh for f-…” Yes well this is happening now. He rises from his seat and approaches Delton purposefully. “Good morning. Our captain wanted to see you. Loris um… is pretty terrible at espionage it seems.”

2

Alvilda (Tav: Helaena+)

alvilda_

Steffi 🍄 [Tavs:Mushroom Mob]

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Delton's eyes flick toward the man addressing him. He was the one to go into the barge and take the contraband. "...He's not very inconspicuous in a crowd, no. But he makes up for it in...politeness."

“Yeah he’s a nice bloke.” Jacob nods. He looks much less intimidating in the daylight, without masks and scarves. “I’m Jacob. Loris was going to tail you and try and stop you leaving the district but I guess here we are.”

Loris looks away, embarrassed by his apparent ineptitude. But at least he feels his part is played. He gives Delton a shy smile before passing through the grain house to a door at the back, and out the other side.

Delton can't help but give a weak smile back to Loris. He seems like a nice guy, but, well, Delton can't help but wonder why he ended up in this business. "Here we are," he's still fidgeting with his pack, "Can you please tell me why I'm here then?"

“Corvid wants to talk to you… but he’s indisposed so he asked Loris to watch you.” Jacob appears more of a capable robber. He has a scar behind his ear running up to his scalp as if he’s been in fights before and his local London accent places him with a lifetime of valuable street knowledge. “Frankly I’d rather you wasn’t here but come in I guess. Boss is in a business meeting.” The boss is having an affair with one of the barmaids from the local, but that’s far from Jacob’s place to spill.

Delton tilts his head, a little confused. "Corvid essentially told me I should run, not walk away from this district. Didn't want me getting caught up with Hawke."

“He just needs a word before you disappear into the ether. Loris was supposed to stick with you… you’re a newcomer we didn’t think you’d get no further than the east end.”

Delton shrugs at that, "I know the general lay of the land. I'm not a refugee, Mr. Jacob. I just didn't want the...attention of a stagecoach." He's not going to be giving any more information than that. Not until he figures what in the Devil's name this is all about.

It makes sense, given what Corvid said he had seen, that this young man would be moving under the radar. The unusual are less likely to be ostracised among the poor and the foreign. “It’s Mr Sheldrake, actually, if you’re formal. You sound well bred, but you ain’t from here right?”

Delton keeps looking at the man, before shaking his head slightly. He's not going to reveal he's Irish. That seems to be putting a lot of faith in criminal men. "I'm from Hampshire. I was summoned here for a job."

“Oh yeah? Not by Mr Hawke I’m guessing?” Jacob returns to his breakfast table, poking at his sticky porridge. It’s going cold which is sub optimal.

Delton's eyes flick around the room, trying to figure out his surroundings. "I'm an alienist. I was summoned by the Church."

“You’re an alienist?” Well that’s… disconcerting. “Do… you know… what do you know about -us-?”

Delton crosses his arms defensively. "I know you robbed the barge last night. And, you all ought to be more careful about your faces and names if you want to continue without getting caught." He's not fond of criminal behavior. But, they were seemingly targeting other criminals. "Unless you have someone with mental illness extreme enough to require my care, I think we'll be fine." He's not here to cause trouble for anyone, after all.

“I think it’s best we calm tempers… Jacob, we have no need to fear alienists.” His hair had been a mess at the bar this morning but, as Corvid enters the house, it has been tied back in a ribbon-like knot. “Do we?” He is confident as he looks to the visitor. Corvid is incredibly well spoken with the manner of a man who belongs in the parlours of a great house, not some back alley hideaway. “Loris didn’t abduct you did he? He is a lovely fellow but he can be rather blunt.” As he steps into the warm light of the house, the shadow of a fresh bruise creeping up his cheekbone can be seen. “Shall we talk?”

Delton can't help but size up Corvid quickly. His manner of speaking reminds him of the children of the elite he grew up with, his manners not quite fitting a crime boss. "...I have no desire to cause you trouble, sir. And, no, he just informed me you wanted to speak to me. Though I imagined he would've taken me to an inn and not..." Their criminal safehouse. He turns to look at Jacob, "Mr. Sheldrake, would it be possible to gather some ice in a towel? I'd rather keep the swelling down as much as possible on Mr. Corvid here." While he ended up focusing on mental illness, his training started in medicine. He is, by all standards, a proper doctor after all.

“Jacob don’t do that. I’m quite alright.” He cuts in quickly. “Shall we talk in private? Jacob I will be in my office.” He beckons to Delton and moves for the rickety stairs at the back of the grain store. Corvid’s office is a lean-to of planks and an upturned shipping crate, on which he has set an expensive oil lamp, silver inkwell and smart darkwood pen. An attempt to make what little resources he had into a professional office. “Forgive me, my colleagues have not told me your name, Mr…?” He gestures to a welsh stick chair with several of the sticks cracked or missing. “Do take care with the seating it can be very easy to fall through.”

Delton follows as he really doesn't have another choice in that. He eyes the chair with suspicion before gingerly sitting down. "Delton. Just Delton is fine," he says, his voice quiet. There's no need to get the Naïlos mixed up in this if it's not necessary.

“A pleasure, Delton. My friends here call me Corvid.” He takes a seat, shifting his weight. There’s a distinct scent of a woman’s perfume clinging to him, mingled with sour, cheap whiskey. “… I won’t beat around the bush, I saw what you did aboard that coal barge. Does it come easy to you?”

"Pleasure," he shifts nearly imperceptibly. Delton knows that denying it wouldn't probably get him anywhere, but admitting it could be a death sentence. He just doesn't know how he was seen. He was cloaked and in dense fog. "...I suppose so. I just wanted to avoid anyone else getting hurt..."

“If I am brutally honest I have wanted to put a bullet through that dreadful bargeman for weeks.” He sighs. It isn’t difficult to find folks in this town who will find cruel words about men of his colouring and throw them his way. Corvid has developed a thick skin but some men… Some men deserve to lose a toe for their prejudice. “But your ambition to preserve life is admirable in your profession. There are some who would look to throw anyone abnormal into Bethlem and be done. But given what I saw… you’re of a different ilk.” He shifts his seat, fidgeting with his hands. “… do not let anyone in this city outside of my men here hear of what you can do.”

Delton tilts his head, "I know what it's like to be illegal just for existing. I'm not fond of the way we treat people as commodities to be fixed, s'all." And that's the truth. Call him a lot of things - naive, foolish even - but he became a doctor to help people. "I had no intention of showing anyone, sir. I'm...still confused on how you found me out, to be honest."

“I have a good eye.” He raises his hand. A twitch of his fingers sets the oil lamp ablaze. “Stay quiet… if Hawke gets his claws into you, you can kiss the church goodbye, and he’s almost as sharp eyed as I.”

Delton nods seriously, knowing that Corvid just gave him a powerful tool in return. An act of trust. Each having dirt on the other. "I will. Frankly, I was intending to stopover at all. I need to get to my accommodations in the city, anyway." A nice little apartment. Furnished and in a solidly upper-middle class part of town. Close to the diocesan headquarters.

“I’m sorry you were on that barge. If I could have changed things I would.” He shrugs. “But the consequences of not doing my job are rather unthinkable.” He shifts again. “… I’ll ask Loris to accompany you to Westminster… I assume that’s where your diocese will be?” Loris can’t fuck up twice. Corvid has far more faith in the East Indian than many would, but he had good reason.

Delton fidgets with his pack, "It's unnecessary but not unappreciated. I try to...keep a low profile." As low as profile as an obviously Irish doctor can keep, anyway.

“Loris is a quiet man but despite his… easily distracted personality he is a good ally.” Corvid nods. “Mr Hawke will be leaving for Brighton within the next hour, I recommend waiting until he is on his coach before leaving here to make your way across the river.”

Delton doesn't doubt that. Loris, for his innocence, seems loyal and stalwart. "I-Yes, I will wait." He doesn't want to encounter Mr. Hawke any more than necessary.

“You still haven’t eaten. Unfortunately I cannot offer you such luxuries as Mr Hawke is able to, but there is oats and milk by the fire. You should line your stomach.”

Delton studies the man on the other end of the desk curiously. "Why are you so intent on helping me? Not to sound ungrateful but this seems...an awful lot of effort for a stranger." He knows he'd likely do the same if he was in Corvid's position, but he's been called a fool for his heart more times than he can count.

“You’ve got magic.” Corvid shrugs. “We need to look out for each other. The world has turned against people like us but that doesn’t mean we have to be alone.”

Delton studies him for a few more moments before smiling weakly, "Thank you. I...Just thank you." He stands, going to get some milk and oats from the fire. He'll need something to maintain himself, after all.

There’s laughter here, as pulled together and shabby as it seems. Corvid goes to get some sleep, exhausted as he seems. A boy about fifteen years old sits with Jacob to help tend to the horses’ tack.

Loris takes time to come back in. When he does he is even more soaked to the bone than before, his shirt clinging to his torso, his hair slick to his head. “… it is raining.” He says, rather plainly.

Delton eats slowly, people watching as much as he can. The boy's rather young to be here, but Mr. Sheldrake seems to be gentle with the boy. At Loris' entrance, he can't help but tilt his head and study the man. He's not one to judge people on their words. From the sounds of it, the other man might be speaking his third or fourth language. Sometimes English sticks to Delton’s tongue like curdled milk, unable to convey what his own tongue would be infinitely better at. "You ought to dry off by the fire before you catch a chill, friend."

“Yeah… Loris you need to dry off.” The boy nods, getting up from his seat. “I’ll grab your towel.”

“How are the horses?” Jacob asks curiously.

Loris takes that as a cue to remove his shirt. It is well adhered to his tanned muscles. Peeling it from his back reveals a broad blistering burn scar, rather old and well healed by the looks of it, that covers his shoulder and the upper half of his left arm. “They are good. Aster is still lame. I put poultice on her hoof.” He explains. His voice is soft, his words lightly concerned. His brow furrows… he cares a great deal for the animals under his watch.

“Thanks mate. If she’s still lame tonight let me know yeah?”

Loris nods, ringing his shirt onto the hearth with a hiss from the hot fireside stone.

Delton immediately averts his eyes back to his oats, not willing to risk getting caught staring. He wishes he could offer help of some sort but, well, his help earlier was largely rebuffed. So he stares at his oats and curses himself, once again, for being such an abomination.

He sits at the table opposite Delton and watches him curiously for a while. The tattoos on his face stop at his collarbone. A patch of pale skin stretches across his chest like a birthmark. His scars, by the look of them, are at least five years old. He doesn’t seem troubled or impeded by them. “… I will take you into the inner city.” He says, watching this strange newcomer curiously. “Corvid has asked me to.”

Delton is looking into his oats like they're the most interesting thing in the world. "Thank you, Loris. I appreciate your help." His voice is quiet, but sincere. He's not a loud man, not a man who's willing to take up too much space, but he's always been genuine.

Loris nods. His wet hair drips and makes him shiver. “You have enough to eat yes?”

Delton smiles at the man, looking up and careful to never let his eyes wonder beneath the other man's face. "Yes, thank you. No need to worry about me, yes?"

“Hmm. Corvid said to look after you.” Whatever they may be it seems they are a loyal bunch. Loris tilts his head like a curious cat. “So you should eat enough. And drink. Can I fetch you a drink?”

Delton can't help but be endeared by the man. He seems quite...gentle. Especially considering his job. "I wouldn't say no to tea. But I think you ought to wait until the young man brings your towel and you warm up a little. No need to catch ill for my sake." He had caught that shiver, of course. The cold and damp may not cause illness, but it definitely didn't help.

“It is only water I will not catch ill.” He manages a small smile through his otherwise seemingly terrified brown eyes, and moves off to make tea.

Delton just sits there, feeling useless. Hurry up and wait. That's what he needs to do. Wait for Hawke to leave, for a danger he doesn't know to pass. It makes dread pool in his stomach. The calm before a frightening storm.

There is camraderie in the gathered thieves. Each is marked with the brand Corvid has on his cheek, somewhere on their person. Even the young boy, who surely isn’t far past puberty, has the brand on his collarbone. They call themselves the Jackdaws, and there are five of them in total, including the one they call Corvid. They have very little to their names for folks who rob so freely. To a man, they seem pleasant. They support each other like brothers, the lad bringing Loris a blanket and Loris making the lad tea in return. There is an older man in his mid fifties who does not speak, but occupies himself with the majority of the domestic chores. While Corvid rests, it is Jacob that assumes the most senior role.

Delton can't help but smile at the camaraderie the men show each other, almost like family. Brothers in arms, indeed. But Delton knows what a brand signifies, what the fear in Loris' eyes might indicate. Corvid warned him to get the Hell out. He thinks he knows why. But he doesn't ask, doesn't speak. He just drinks his tea with a small smile, happy to be an observer to the affection clearly in this little safehouse.

It’s around noon when Corvid resurfaces. Ruffled by sleep, looking worn, his bruise more developed. “Okay look sharp fellows. Hawke wants to see me before his departure, Jacob hold the fort. Loris I want you to listen for my signal and then take the alleyway behind Clitheroe’s to Westminster Bridge.”

Loris had dried and dressed and had occupied himself in the corner, a fine needle and thread in his thick fingers as he carefully repairs clothes. He looks across at Delton and then at Corvid. “Jika saya terus bergerak ke utara, kita akan keluar dari Lambeth sebelum gelap.” His words are quicker when speaking Malay, the language easy on his tongue and not stilted or slow, like English.

“ya. utara. perjalanan yang baik.” Corvid’s Malay, conversely, is terrible. But he tries, and that counts for something.

Loris gives him a small supportive smile. “Delton, you come with me. Corvid will go to Hawke.” He nods back to Delton, reaching for his coat to shrink away from the cold rain.

Delton nods, curiously looking between the two men. "Alright," he says and turns to Corvid, "Thank you, again. Do try to stay out of too much trouble, yes?" I'd hate for this world to catch up to any of you.

“Ah, I run towards trouble. Force of habit, my good man.” He reaches out to shake his hand. “Let us hope we never see each other again yes?”

Delton smiles and nods, taking Corvid's hand in his. "Here's to never meeting again, friend." He releases Corvid's hand and turns to follow Loris.

Loris steps out tentatively. The rain has ended but drips and drops still slither down from rooftops and grass fronds. It’s better than it raining like hell. “Dry is better than wet.” He muses, shrugging a shoulder. “We will wait here for Corvid’s signal.”

Delton slips on his cap, "I don't disagree. The rain here's always so cold, also." He hums a little bit before asking, "What language was that?"

“My… my language?” He asks, patting a hand against his chest. “Malay. Is what I speak.” He looks at him with another curious tilt of his head. “You are not English?”

Malay. East Indian, then. Malaysia, Indonesia, or East Timor. He took to his language lessons like a fish to water. Geography seemed logical to pursue, just the same. "I'm...adopted. My adopted family are English and legally I'm English but...no. I was born in Ireland." My first tongue isn't English either. But I've spent a lot of time perfecting my English to seem like that's not the case. But that doesn't make English seem wrong oftentimes.

“Ireland is close… green grass and grey stone. Irish friends say.” He gestures vaguely around the dock. “Lots of folk here are not English. Or the wrong kind of English.” Like Corvid and Jacob. Born and bred on British soil and still treated like garbage for something so arbitrary as the colour of their skin. This country, wet and cold, baffles him.

Delton smiles, a slightly bittersweet thing. "It's much greener than here. Wilder. I miss it, even so many years removed." It's been thirteen years since he'd left. He's soon going to have spent more time in England than his home. "It is...terrible, yes. I wish it wasn't so. People ought to be judged on the merit of themselves, not some arbitrary factor they have no control over." Yes, he's Irish. But he also has magic. And...affections he cannot help but have, no matter how hard he's tried to enjoy the company of the opposite sex. Life would be so much easier if he was judged for him and not what people think he is.

Loris smiles. He had never troubled himself in believing any act of love could be seen as abhorrent but here it was strange. You had to love the right people. To give affection to anyone different was seen as improper. The English gentry took one look at Loris with his tall frame, his facial markings and his tan skin and called him a savage, but such a thing could not be further from the truth. He opens his mouth to speak but a loud, high pitches whistle catches his ear. “Corvid’s call. We will walk now.”

Delton nods, inclining his head for Loris to lead. He tries to walk in a way befitting a proper gentleman, even if he'd love to shrink his way away from the cold. "Where are you from, originally?" A question for a question, he supposes.

“From the Indies… Java. Traveled from there when I was a child, to Timor… then Aotearoa. English boats brought me from there to here.” The pace he sets is steady. The canal waters do not flow, they merely sit like a lake surface ruffled by the occasional breeze.

Delton hums again, keeping pace even though the other man's strides are much larger than his own. "Did you...want to come here?" He hadn't. For all the opportunities he got, he had to give up his tongue, his religion, his home, and his magic. He loves his family, but that doesn't mean he doesn't ruminate on the 'could've beens.'

“Hmm. No. Here is even more wet and cold than Aotearoa. At least Java, when it is wet, it is warm.” He chuckles at that. “One day, I will go home.”

"I hope you do..." He says quietly. He won't be able to. Even though Ireland is closer than Java. He has accepted that he'd come back a stranger, an enemy, someone to be hated. He'd rather retain the memories he has of home then mar them with that.

“You too. You move for opportunity, to find better, but I think everyone who leaves wants to go home.” Home for Loris was never the house he shared with his mother and sisters. It had never really been with the lovers he took along the way. Home, for Loris, was hot monsoon rain through sweet scented jungle. The sound of frogs and monkeys chattering from their shelter. Home was grilled fish on the beach and conversation around a warm fire. He missed the island more than anything else. This island just wasn’t the same.

1

Bee (Tav: Delton)

traver1111

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Delton gives a weak smile. How do you say you can't go home? How do you say that the only home you ever wanted didn't want you anymore? How did you say that you're not quite sure you've ever been wanted anywhere? "Would you tell me of Java?" He asks, instead.

“I can… I have been here some time but my English is still… industrial.” He has no words for the moon that he misses on the water. How can he describe the lush green to someone from somewhere so alien. “It is… nice. Green and growing. There are many trees and animals that they do not have here.” He turns from the grey towpath into a narrow street. There isn’t even a single leaf of green to see here.

"Your English is fine. Learning and trying, that is difficult. I've spoken English as my main tongue for thirteen years and I...struggle sometimes." He still thinks in his mother tongue, still feels like he can't quite describe things in the right way. "Home is greener. Here and well, my true home. I grew up in the countryside."

“You learned Irish? Englishmen have made it illegal to speak no?” He probably wouldn’t mind the cold and rain so much if he could see grasses and trees. The grey drudge of industrial London is depressing.

Delton laughs a little, "I didn't learn. It was my first language. After my parents were...arrested, I was adopted by an English family and have never been allowed to speak it since." It's painful to not be able to speak his own language without fear of arrest. 'The countryside is much more lush than this. A lot greener."

“Arrested? For being foreign?” Loris, it seems, is oblivious to magic. Perhaps even oblivious to Corvid’s talents.

"No." He doesn't elaborate. Not here, not now. "If you ever have the chance, you'd probably like it far outside London. Less smog, less industry. Easier to just...be, I suppose."

“I have never been outside of London… only little trips along the river for Mr Hawke.” The pathway dips down, the tall buildings either side making for a gloomy journey, especially as the cloud grey sky continues to blacken

Delton knows that the brand Loris has likely makes it difficult for him to leave. But he still says, "It won't be lush like your home. Still cold and rainy. But the landscape turns very pretty colors in the autumn."

“I have seen some trees, along the river. The leaves turn brown.” All he knows is bramble and coarse overgrowth. The murky, muddy brown of polluted foliage. “One day, maybe, I will go and see the countryside. See if it is as they say. I hope so.” He looks at Delton again and smiles. It’s nice to have someone to talk to. Someone other than the Jackdaws who doesn’t assume he is an imbecile.

Delton smiles back, "In the countryside, they turn red, orange, and yellow. And walking through a forest and hearing the leaves crackle beneath you is just...soothing, I suppose." "I hope you like it too. I hope you can go someday soon."

“Yes… I would like to, I need someone who can show me. Too few people have the time.” He laughs. In the busy roiling wharfs, no one ever has any time. Not unless Hawke deems it so.

Delton smiles at Loris' laugh. It's a pleasant sound, a happy one. "I can't promise right away because of settling into my job, but I could, maybe, show you, someday." He's not as busy as people who owe their souls to a robber baron after all.

“I think that would be nice.” Even as he says it he knows the likelihood is slim. Hawke will be away for two weeks, not much more. He rules his operation closely and does not care to be separated from it. No doubt Corvid has been left in command in Hawke’s stead, which may make things easier. At least in the short term. He could come back and see Delton again, once he has settled into his new place among the white dressed men of this country’s strange religion.

Delton smiles, broader than before. "Very nice. Thank you, again, for looking out for me." This man didn't need to take time out of his likely very little free time to help him. Even if Corvid had asked, that didn't mean it was necessary to talk to him, a newcomer more trouble than he's worth.

“Thank you, for talking. Most people see me they think, oh, aurgh he is very large, his English is very bad.” He waves a hand in the air with a roll of his eyes. “It can make me feel very tired of living far away from home. I am glad for men like you. Delton.” He says his name again, making sure he is pronouncing it correctly. It always makes Loris happy to hear his name said correctly by foreign tongues… but it never happens these days.

"I'm sorry people are so ignorant to you. It's arrogance and prejudice to assume you know someone based on superficial things like that." His voice has a little bit of heat to it. He's gotten into enough scrapes defending his mother and siblings for the color of their skin, though Theron and Theo hated it. Always thought he was too fragile, in that. He immediately notes the carefulness that he says Delton's name. Ahh, he's probably saying Loris' name wrong. "Walk me through the pronunciation of your name, friend. I love to learn and you deserve to have your name said correctly." Everyone does.

“It is just Loris. All here call me Loris I do not mind.” He suddenly feels embarrassed, holding up his hands as they reach the deepest pit of the hollow alley. It climbs upwards from hereon, towards a sliver of white-grey light and the sound of ravenous gulls swarming the shore of the thick, brown river as it rushes to the sea.

Delton pauses at that before quietly saying, "It's okay if I'm misprouncing it. And it's okay if that upsets you. But it's also okay if you don't want to tell me that." This is a conversation he's had with Pa often. But it wasn't his name - it was the names of his home, the way his original home was depicted, the way Delton tried to pretend nothing was wrong when he came home beaten up. "All uphill from here, I suppose," he says, unsure if he's only talking about the alley.

“Uphill. Yes.” Loris agrees. He takes his first few steps up the steep embankment towards the surge of the Thames. “You can try if you like.” He offers, feeling somewhat guilty that he knows Delton’s name but Delton doesn’t know his. “Lahri. Bintang Lahri.” He says carefully. It’s been a while since he has spoken it aloud. “When the English came to Aotearoa, they called me Lawrence. Corvid, he says Loris. I like Loris more than Lawrence.”

Delton rolls the sound of the name on his tongue as they start to ascend. "I'm going to try to break it into parts to get it right, alright? And please correct me if I'm wrong." He brushes some flyaway hairs from his face, tucking them into his cap. "Law-hree? Bin-tung Law-hree?" He's getting it wrong, he knows. But he's going to keep trying.

He watches him with a curious frown. It’s endearing, really. He is so willing to try, and is doing far better than most who immediately give in. “Laaah-rhee.” He annunciates clearly, moving his hands in time with the words. He is becoming slightly breathless from the steep hill. “You sound better than most English.” He grins, ploughing on up the slipperly cobbles. “… I do not like this road.” He huffs.

Delton isn't really bothered by the steepness of the hill. He's used to running up and down hills since he was small. Instead, he's intent on getting the name right. "Well most people are quitters. And I am not." He rolls the sound on his tongue again before, "Laaah-rhee. Lah-rhee. Lahri?"

“Yes. Yes! Lahri, you have got it.” He chuckles brightly. “anda faham dengan betul!” He laughs and shakes his head. Europeans never get it right. Delton is built differently it seems.

Delton returns the smile, just as brightly. "I know what it's like when people don't try. I'm glad...I'm glad I could try for you." His family never quite got it, his insistence that the maps were wrong, that names were incorrect. But they accepted it, even if they never let him speak his tongue beyond those names and never outside of their house's walls.

“I am grateful for your trying.” It’s made him feel lighter. As if this hill is nothing to him now as he breaks out into the street above, struck by the cold wind that blusters down the river. “Bridge here, see?” He points. “We go to that, and we can walk across into Westminster, to the abbey.”

Delton nods, "Thank you, Lahri." He shivers at the gust of wind, careful to make sure his cap is secured on his head. "Not too far at all now. Made even shorter by good company," his smile hasn't dropped.

“Probably best, in front of the others, that you still call me Loris.” He cautions gently. He doesn’t want the Jackdaws to feel bad and… Also… He sort of wants to keep it for Delton. Which is a strange thing to feel. “I try to be good company.” He says with a small, shy smile. It’s fortunate that the wind has already bruised his cheeks to pink, to conceal his little blush.

Nodding, Delton agrees. "Just for us, then? That works for me. I'm just glad that at least one person says your name." That shy smile could cause a less disciplined person to buckle. Instead, his heart just stuttered, impossibly. "You are very good company. I hope you think the same of me," he returns the smile, suddenly shy too.

“I think you are good company Delton.” He smiles again, broader this time as he makes for the bridge. If he walks a little slower, who is going to know? “So you came here for the church… Corvid says you are to become an alienist, what is that?”

Delton keeps pace with the bigger man, noticing that he slowed slightly. He's not complaining. "So, an alienist is a type of doctor. I treat people with sick minds, rather than sick bodies. I can do the physical illnesses too, but I choose to specialize to help people who are often...left behind, so to speak." He's supposed to be able to tell the Church if it's possession or illness. He's keen to lean on illness unless absolutely necessary.

“Oh… they have come to our dockland before. Looking for Corvid. They think he has devils’ blood.” He shakes his head. “Mr Hawke tells them to leave and they leave, which is a good thing.” In the centre of the bridge he stops. Though the water is thick and brown, something moves through the rich silt. “Seal.” Loris points out. “Grey seal.”

Delton pales a bit at that, "I don't intend to take anyone away from their homes. I hope only to help." He's likely to end up working in a sick ward, really. Stopping, he looks into the water. It takes a few moments to focus on the movement but, there it is. "Oh, wonderful..." He loves animals. He often likes them more than people. They don't have any machinations like people, after all.

“Not much green in this city, but still some life if you look for it.” Most travellers don’t spot the seal. They are busy, moving swiftly through their fast paced lives. The clamour of horseshoes in cobbles means folks shout to be heard. “Come… we are almost there.”

Delton nods, happy to have seen it. It's disappointing that most don't stop to notice, but not unsurprising. "Sometimes you need to know where to look," he agrees.

“Everywhere, there is life. I have not seen a place where it cannot breathe, even here in the smoke.” Loris feels like an outsider, but when he sees other creatures thriving in unlikely places he knows he isn’t alone. “What will you do first now you are here? Will you train with doctors? With the collared preachers?” He is not often this curious about the lives of men, but Delton has made him so. He’s a rare light in the drizzly grey, a beacon fiery as the red of his hair.

Life does have a eay of marching on, despite the odds. He supposes he's living proof of that. "I will be training with doctors. My position is with the Church but I'm not joining the clergy." He wouldn't want to, really. He's done all the steps that the Anglican Church has required of him, but it's not where he feels at home. "I just want to help, Lahri. That's all."

“You are a good person I think, Delton.” The bridge slopes downwards, parliament on the left is a busy sprawl of scrambling politicians and their aides and servants. Loris has only been to this side of the river a few times. It’s always disappointing - still grey and smelly just with perfume rather than pollution. A mask over the detritus. But there are trees, planted diligently in neat rows along the roadways to shelter the horses as they drag rattling traps and coaches through the busy town. The bell tower of the abbey reaches like a monolith into the grey sky, and Loris studies it for a moment. “This is the right place… yes?”

"Thank you, Lahri. For what it's worth, I think you are too." He takes in the sights of the city. He's been to London before, of course, even if he didn't like it. His father works in trades and, while he often left Delton and his siblings home, he didn't always. "Yes, this is the right place. I can't thank you enough for all your help. And, please extend my gratitude to the rest of your companions."

he feels a strange pang of loss, even now. He doesn’t quite want to say goodbye yet. “Ah, I should walk you to the door, Corvid asked me to take you to the place you need to be at, not to leave half way.” It makes sense. Sort of. It’s the best he can think of for now. “I shall walk you to the door.”

Delton nods at that, it making sense to him. Lahri seems the noble sort who doesn't want to leave a job unfinished. "What will you do after this, Lahri?"

“I will go back to Lambeth dock with the others and do my job.” It’s not what he imagined a life across the sea might be, but it’s what he has. At least he has friends. He almost wishes he could come into the church… what would his god think to that? Perhaps it’s the same god… but his prayers would not be welcome in those strict anglican halls.

Delton nods seriously, "I hope you can find some joy in your job. You deserve that." Lahri deserves to have some parts of his life be fulfilling, after all.

“And you… find a way to help people who need you. You will be good at it, I think.” He stops at the great wooden doors, looking up. Places of worship here were all closed doors and stern faces. He almost didn’t want to leave Delton here. “You will be alright? Yes?”

Delton ducks his head at those words, slightly bashful. "Thank you. And, yes, I will be alright. Take care of yourself, Lahri. I hope to see you soon." That might be entirely unrealistic, but it's nice to speak it out loud. A sort of prayer. For a friend.

“I hope I will see you again too. Delton.” Again, he does his best to pronounce his name clearly. He really means it when he says he wants to see him again. Corvid is right, it’s best that Delton stays clear of the docklands but that doesn’t mean Loris can’t escape to cross the river here. But people stare more here. He is more of an anomaly than he is among the immigrant communities south of the river. He cannot linger, people will ask questions soon. “Good luck, Delton of Ireland.” He gives him one last, lingering smile before turning away. It’s strange to feel a pang of disappointment after knowing someone so briefly but… it’s there.

Delton's own smile lingers, watching the man walk away from the abbey. His own heart clenches with something like disappointment, but he can't dwell on it. No, it's better to shove those thoughts down to the deep recesses where they belong and where they should remain unacknowledged. He turns back around and enters the church.

There are no grey seals on the walk back to the warehouses. The smog of the factories clouds the air as Loris walks back to the canal, along the towpath to the safe house. Thomas is asleep. Jacob, Mr Flowers and Corvid are all absent. Loris kneels, pressing his brow to the floor in prayer. He hasn’t met anyone that has piqued his interest in years. Delton remains on his min throughout his Salah, but even god has no answers for him. He wonders if hair that red means a man is born of fire. It’s certainly striking. He sits back on his heels and exhales heavily, trying to imagine the grey brown foliage of the docks turning the same colours of red and orange and gold he saw in Delton’s hair as it peeked from under his cap. That would certainly be more beautiful than London Grey.

Delton's job doesn't officially start for a few days, but being early never hurt anyone. He was able to commission a few outfits to work in, though finding a tailor who would serve an Irish person was difficult. Money talks, but not enough to make people think he didn't steal it. It's why he keeps letters from his parents and the Church on him at all times. The way most of the doctors talk about their patients gets on his nerves. Yes, they are ill, but they're still people. He doesn't know what he expected, considering most of these men have never seen hardship in his life. But he's here to learn, not to judge. And the job he has been given is difficult, but hopefully not impossible. He misses home.

Hawke may be gone for now but life along the towpath has no choice but to continue. The order is to stop the gravel barge as it makes its way to the south of the city. When Jacob asked what the contraband to steal would be, Corvid didn’t respond. Still they stopped the barge. Smuggled people scattered into the wind and, as often happened when the bargemen were young and determined, a fight broke out. The push and pull of combat is quick, several of the antagonists on both sides tumbling into the dirty water - Loris among them. It’s a laugh at his expense once they are home and dry. A wide grazed gash on his calf where he scraped down the side of the boat makes for a paltry battle scar but Loris is no great fan of battle scars. Confusing to the Jackdaws… nothing is taken from the gravel barge. No contraband or ill gotten gains are squirrelled away. The youngest lad, Thomas, asks about it. Corvid tells him not to trouble his mind with the hows and whys - just do the job. Despite the rain, Loris finds himself in a sweat the next few days. The graze on his calf looks ugly. On Saturday he becomes disoriented and knocks over a table in the pub. He is admonished for being reckless and sent home. On Sunday he is found, sweating and shirtless in the street raving in a language no one can understand. Corvid talks him down… but not before Hawke’s ears reach out to find help. The big indian needs to be taken away - he is quite insane, it would seem. The sweat exhausts him, his muscles ache and twitch. Loris’ mind runs with images of wild horses racing through the docks, uncatchable, chased by fire. He cries warnings in a language no one knows for a threat that is not there. He is sick in the head, a threat to everyone’s safety if not contained. Despite Corvid’s loud protests, he does not have Mr Hawke’s authority. The dockers take him away, lock him in a coal reserve and call for the chaplains to see to the wild creature’s fouled mind.

Delton, when he heard where the supposedly 'sick Indian' is, felt his blood run cold. He really hopes it's neither Lahri or Corvid, that this is another person alltogether. He insists on being the one to come, leveraging the fact that he knows many languages - ones common at the docks, even if that's a fib - and a newcomer. He can make the supposedly insane man feel more comfortable. It doesn't sound like possession, so the chaplains relent. So he packs up his medical kit, hoping this is something he is qualified to handle.

Delton’s met by a gruff man with a large moustache and large hands who leads him to the makeshift jail. “Sorry t’be callin’ you out all this way sir only ‘e’s dangerous. Shouting, flinging ‘imself about, screamin’ all words none of my lads fuckin’ understand. Best ‘e’s seen to by your lot. Take ‘im up to Bethlem ‘ospital I say.” The reserve is under the factories, shut away behind barred gates. Loris is cold, sweaty, and huddled in one corner. The septic nature of the cut on his leg has given him a wild fever, and still his thoughts are full of horses. Small, impossible horses chasing circuits around the coals in the room. His skin is blotched black from the dust, clinging easily to sweat. He is a mess.

1

Bee (Tav: Delton)

traver1111

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Delton gives the man a small smile, trying to be polite. But when he sees Lahri, his face falls. "Let me first exam him, and then we'll see." I know Lahri. He's no madman. So there must be something... He slowly approaches the Indonesian, moving like he would if he was dealing with a spooked horse. In Arabic, he says, "Lahri? It's Delton. I'm here to help you." He doesn't know Malay, but he's hoping Arabic might strike a cord.

He has felt sick for days. Both hot and cold, shivering and sweating. He never expected to hear a familiar voice, speaking a language he knows far better than what has been screamed at him of late. “Delton?” He looks up. His face is puffy, the whites of his eyes tinged yellow. He speaks the same language in return. “I feel like I am dying.” He has never felt so sick before. Perhaps it is dramatic or perhaps it is not far from truthful, the state he is in. Hot pain throbs at his leg. He hisses through gritted teeth and manages to pull up the leg of his grubby breeches to show the infected wound. “It is this cut. It brought me to madness and it will not stop.”

2

Alvilda (Tav: Helaena+)

alvilda_

Bee (Tav: Delton)

traver1111

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The wound is bad, sepsis clearly already setting in. He turns to the man and says, "This man isn't mad. He has an infected wound. He was screaming in the languages he's most familiar with. Can I move him back to his quarters so he can be bathed and the infection can be cleaned?" The coal dust isn't going to help the wound. And, clearly, Lahri is sane, if not well. "I'll also need honey, the fresher the better. I'll pay, of course, but it's urgent." Turning back to Lahri, he places his wrist against the other man's forehead and winces, before saying, in Arabic, "I will get you taken care of, Lahri. Don't worry."

The world is a swirl of real and hallucination. Fire licks down the stairs, tiny horses jump from coal to coal on the floor. “Delton…” He’s shaking. He can’t bring himself to say anything else.

One of the workers begins to protest but is cut off. “The big’un’s one of Mr Corvid’s boys we won’t hear the end of it if ‘e dies on our watch.” The moustachioed man reasons. “Right. So long as he’s out of ‘ere and not yelling at me workers I don’t much care. Go on mate you take ‘im.”

Loris, to be fair to the workers, does look half feral. But his state of undress and his coal-stained skin does nothing to help that, as he twitches and sweats.

Delton sighs when he realizes he's not going to get any help from the workers. "Lahri, I need you to walk with me. I know you're in a lot of pain, but I can't move you on my own. I'll take you home and get you better." He turns back to the men and gives a short nod. "In the future, check if a man has a fever before you call him insane. It could be any of you one day, after all."

Loris stands, and as he does the workers recoil. “Yeah no offence mate, but I ain’t going near a man that big when ‘e’s stark raving mad. You fink I got a death wish or summink?”

Delton rolls his eyes and grabs his bag. "You can lean on me if you need, Lahri."

“I will walk.” He answers in English, looking through his bedraggled, sweat drenched hair. His steps are cumbersome but he walks, as best he can, and grips the iron bars of the door tightly as he steps through. There is still something wild in his eyes. One of the dockworkers crosses themselves. As he stumbles into the daylight people point and murmur as he winces from the light, sharp and bright in his sensitive eyes.

Delton stares down a few people with raised eyebrows. It's amazing that people who are meant to "Love thy neighbor" are this judgemental. "Would you prefer to go back to Mr. Corvid's place?" he asks, his voice quiet and sympathetic.

“We do not have a place. What we have is shared.” He is quickly breathless. Beneath the sweat-streaked coal stains he is very pale. The wound on his leg oozes and sticks to his trousers uncomfortably, making him lame and his gait slow. Whenever he speaks his words are laboured. He needs to rest, it will not be long before his legs give out entirely. Fire flashes through his vision again, bursting and turning into a flock of bright birds that fill the sky. He swats at his vision. “terlalu banyak warna… terlalu banyak warna!”

Delton pauses and finds a lean to that Lahri can rest against. "I'm very sorry this is happening to you. We can rest for a few minutes, and take as many breaks as you need, but I really need to get you to the safehouse. We need to get your fever down." He's not comfortable treating Lahri with this much coal dust and dirt and sweat on the man. The last thing he wants to do is make the infection worse. "If I flag a worker down, would they be able to fetch Mr. Corvid or Mr. Sheldrake?"

He is too breathless to speak but he nods. He has never felt so tired so quickly. Even when injured in the past, even after the fire, he hadn’t ever felt so horribly sick and weak. If Corvid could help, he would. Loris was sure of that. He had lost him, swallowed by work… But he could call for help. He never *thought*… He cups his shaking hands to his face and from within a distinct, high-pitched whistle rings out through the dockyard. The same call Corvid had used before to signal Hawke’s departure.

Delton nods and encourages Lahri to lean back against the little shady spot he found. "We'll help you, friend. It's alright."

He nods again, but his consciousness was already shifting, weaving between dreams, visions and reality. His blood felt as though it burned, everything he could see burned. He dreamt while walking, trees or orange red and gold as he had been told, but the leaves… burning. Red hair. *burning*…

Delton is starting to get even more concerned so, when Corvid comes into view, he's relieved. "I need you to help me carry him back to your home. I can't do it on my own. You can yell at me later."

For a second, it looks like the man may argue, but he sighs and takes one of Loris' arms and wraps it around his shoulder. Delton does the same with the other arm. Corvid isn't too much bigger than Delton himself, but sturdier, at least. So they drag Loris back toward the sadehouse, Delton murmuring soothing words in Arabic. They eventually stumble through the door, all of them soaked in sweat and coal dust.

"I'm going to need someone to run a cool bath for him. I need to look at that wound and try to clean it out. If I yell, don't be alarmed. He's out of it and may hit me on accident." He's had worse. At least Loris isn't aware of what's happening. That wasn't the case with his biological family.

“We ain’t got a bath.” Thomas, the young lad, looks helpless as they come through with Loris’ prone form.

“let’s get one of the horse troughs from round the back.” Jacob nods, and the two disappear together to source what they can.

Corvid is not built for heavy lifting. He is a man built for prancing about on a horse. He blots sweat from his head, smudging his brow with coal. “I didn’t know he was this bad… good lord he’s circling the drain.” He gasps. He looks up at Delton, then back at the rest of the room. It’s empty. He looks at Delton again. “Can you heal? With your talents, have you ever been able to heal?”

Delton nods, "...If you can keep the others distracted, I should be able to at least get rid of the infection. He'll probably still have to weather the fever, but it'll be reduced." Ma is the only one who knows. The only one who's alive, anyway. He saved Theo from drowning once. He couldn't save him from the fire.

Corvid nods. He gives Delton a firm pat on the shoulder. “Boys let me help you with that trough-!” He strides out through the back doors. Moments later there’s an audible clunk and rapturous sarcastic applause as Corvid causes problems on purpose. Distractions are his specialty.

Delton manages to get Lahri to sit, glad that the hearth hasn't yet been lit. "Lahri, friend, I'm going to help. Please don't be afraid..." He rolls up Lahri's pant leg, revealing the infected wound to the world. His hands hover over the wound. "Leigheas, leigheas, tar chugainn," he sings like a prayer, healing words, an old chant. Old magic. The magic is silver and seeps into the wound. The redness lessons, the wound stops oozing, Lahri's heartbeat returns to a normal rate. His face is less puffy and his eyes are no longer yellow. Delton reaches up and touches his wrist against Lahri's forehead. Still feverish, but not dangerously so. "How do you feel now, Lahri?"

He starts in fits of discomfort. A fight in him that he has not the strength to follow through. He flaps weakly, eventually letting himself fall weak and limp again. Exhausted. “… tired…. Better…… Alhamdulillah…” He breathes, his breath still a mite raspy. The weight of exhaustion is dragging him down. The waters of sleep feel murky and poisoned. In the back of his tired mind, the fear he might not wake stirs and shudders but there is little he can do to fight. The damage is done. The wound is healed. His fate now lies in how well he might recover, and that is something only his blood knows the answer to.

Delton's pale complexion has an almost sickly pallor to it now, his energy completely drained. He's going to have to dress the wound and at least give the man a sponge bath. It wouldn't do for the infection to reappear. But his entire body shakes with effort. "It'll be alright, Lahri. It'll be alright." Delton hopes he's not lying.

When the Jackdaws return they are all too keen to help. The old, mute man, Mr Flowers, helps to clean out the trough and fill it with hot water. The boy, Thomas, busies around at Delton’s request to fetch washcloths and soap and towels. Jacob busies himself with providing the physician with food and water. Corvid checks in when he is able, pulled away by unspoken and unknown duties left to him by the erstwhile Mr Hawke that he dare not abandon, but still he casts his eye over his sick companion. Loris sleeps. He dreams still of red and orange and gold. A rush of blood, spark of fire, falling leaves and crimson hair all swirled together and pulsing with every beat of his frantic heart.

Delton manages to scrub the man down, cleaning as much dust and sweat off the man as he is able. He's careful around the wound, but he flushes it out carefully. He feels for the men as they look physically pained when Lahri screams. Unfortunately, there's not much he can do about that. He closely monitors Lahri's temperature and, after all few hours, it breaks. He's been working nonstop for the man, trying to ensure that the Indonesian doesn't take a downturn in his sleep. When it finally breaks, he does another scrub of the man before getting Mr. Sheldrake to help him lift the man out of the trough, propping Lahri up to be warmed by the fire, a blanket around him for decency. He wraps the wound after treating it with a concoction made of honey and a few of the herbs in his bag. Delton is drained and tired, but pushes through. His patients matter more than a little exhaustion.

The hour is late when Corvid finally returns. He looks drawn, something in his eyes faded. Seeing Loris still breathing at least lifts his spirits. “You’ve kept the blighter alive then… I must say that’s very impressive. Are you sure the church is the right place for you, and not the surgical suites of Edinburgh?” He asks, handing over a half drunk bottle of expensive brandy from beneath his oiled black cloak.

Delton looks at the man, his own eyes tired. "I'll...pass. I'm so exhausted I'm nauseous and I don't feel like vomiting on your floor..." What that really means is "My magic drained me so much I'm nauseous." Corvid can probably read between the lines.

He gets it. He offers a small knowing smile and pats his shoulder. “Let me look over him. You get some rest, you’re no good to Loris or anyone if you’re worn down to the bone.”

Delton looks conflicted before sighing. The man's right, after all. "You will wake me if anything happens, yes? Any change, I need to know." His voice is grave, clearly still very concerned.

“Swear on my life, I will wake you.” He presses a palm to his heart and bows his head. “I don’t want to lose him. He’s a good man.”

Delton slowly gets up, "Where do you want me to lay down? Don't want to be too much of a bother." He looks down at Lahri and gives a sad smile, "He is a good man. Doesn't deserve this."

“Not to be uncouth but… anywhere that there is space, my good man. We are not blessed with private chambers here.” The boy Thomas has curled himself under a rough blanket and is sleeping, thoughtless and slack-jawed, against the wall. Corvid rolls his eyes. “I do envy the ability of adolescents to sleep wherever they fall.”

Delton sighs, "More just don't want to be in the way of anyone if they have to get up for an early shift, s'all." He looks at the adolescent and smiles, "It's a gift, I think. One I miss."

“You won’t be any trouble. We’re indebted to you for helping him, believe me.” He takes a long drink from his bottle of brandy. “God knows good luck is thin on the ground for us.”

"I hope that this is just a sign of turning tides, Mr. Corvid." He yawns and curls up near the fire.

“You and me both, my friend.” He sighs, and drinks. And drinks. Sleep will not take him any time soon, may as well keep vigil.

Loris sleeps soundly, his breathing slow but restful. Corvid covers him with a blanket when the temperature drops, and is sure to usher out the Jackdaws come dawn. When the sick man wakes it is with a horribly dry mouth and swaying nausea. His leg aches. He groans, lifting a hand to press the heel into his eye. Every muscle in his body aches.

Delton woke with the sun. He's never been a very good sleeper and, in a place as unfamiliar as this, his sleep was fitful. He immediately goes to Lahri's side and helps him slowly rise, a cup of water in his hand, "Hello Lahri. Drink. Slow sips, friend." He's going to have to change his dressings, but he wanted to see how lucid he was before the pain of that.

He sits up as best he can, his broad hands closing around the cup with a slight tremor of weakness as he drinks. The water is cold and soothes his throat. “I was…” he doesn’t know how to finish his sentence. Where was he? “… something was burning.”

He raises his hand and puts his wrist to the man's head. The fever hasn't come back, fortunately. "You had a fever from an infection. I managed to flush most of the infection out, but I'll have to keep an eye on your leg. The burning was likely hallucinations from the illness, Lahri." Delton gestures at Lahri's leg, "I'm going to have to redress your wound, alright?" Consent is important. Just doing things is what causes patients to lash out, whether out of confusion or fear.

“What happened to my leg?” He blinks slowly. It’s unclear just what he remembers from the past few days and what has become swallowed by lucid dreaming. He nods at Delton as he moves to reveal the wound, tilting his head to see if he can see what it is that hurts so badly.

"I...don't know. I was called in long after the infection set in." Without my magic, it might've been too late. He slowly unwraps the leg and, while the wound is still intimidating to look at, it's no longer red nor weeping. In fact, it looks like it's ready for Delton to stitch it up. "I'm going to have to stitch this up. I have ethanol to numb the area a bit, but I'm afraid it still might hurt."

Loris’ expression doesn’t change as he looks at the wound. As if it doesn’t trouble him at all to see what has become of a simple graze. “I will not need ethanol. You can stitch the hole.”

Delton looks at him and then looks at the wound, "...So I will apply the ethanol for my own peace of mind, if nothing else." He goes and washes his hands, then runs a needle over the hearth before disinfecting it with ethanol. After, he flushes the wound out once more and dabs ethanol on the wound. His stitches are steady and practiced, clearly something he has done before. The wound is closed in short order. "You'll have to be careful to keep the area clean."

At no point does his expression change. Not during the swipe of the astringent ethanol, or the flush of the would or the prick of the needle. It barely seems to register. He does, however, laugh weakly at Delton’s words. “Delton… Lambeth dock… it is not a clean place.” He chuckles quietly.

Delton sighs and runs a hand down his face, "I know. I'm amazed we're not called here for more infection cases, things are so bad here." "But you have to try. That wound...it almost killed you Lahri. And, if it wasn't me who managed to weasel his way down here, they would have taken you to Bethlem and it would've gone untreated." He feels so damn helpless.

“But I am not dead.” His voice is almost steadily reassuring. As if the alienist is the one in need of comfort and not the man who almost met his god sooner than intended. “Because of you.” He manages a smile at this, and reaches to place a hand over where Delton’s rests. “It is a life debt.” That makes two. One to Delton and one still held for Corvid.

Delton looks at the man with a weak smile, "You don't owe me anything, Lahri. Except to live a long and happy life." He lingers for a moment before he pulls back to dress the bandages in the honey concoction from earlier and wraps it around Lahri's leg.

“It is an honour to uphold.” He says, as if no amount of reassurance will sway him. Stubborn as the proverbial ox. “I thought you were a doctor of minds not legs.” There’s an almost playful tone to his weak words, settling as comfortably as he dare against the meagre padding.

Delton laughs a little at that, shaking his head, "You're a stubborn one, aren't you?" He chews on his lip, measuring his response, "I am trained as a medical doctor, but I chose to pursue being an alienist to help people like, well, you. People the system wants to write off for whatever reason."

“Why did they think I was losing my mind?” He has flashes of memory before he finishes speaking, and involuntarily runs a hand over the exposed scar tissue on his shoulder. “… I could see fire, there was no fire.” He shakes his head. “Sickness did that?”

He nods, his eyes following the movement. "When someone's temperature gets high enough or generally just gets sick enough, it can cause them to see things that aren't there." He gently pats Lahri's knee. "It's your body trying to fight the infection but going too far."

He nods slowly as he pieces memories together. The wild delusions of the cholera stricken, back in his homeland. “I am lucky it was you.” Had another man of the church been sent, it was highly likely they would only have seen violence in Loris. He had known the man a day, and he could already see there is no shred of harm in Loris’ body.

"It's my honor to help people, Lahri. And I'm glad you're better now." He sighs again, still frustrated by the general state of things. "Is there anything you need?"

“I will be alright.” He smiles, reaching to take hold of Delton’s hand. “I will live. You must go, you will be busy enough without me.”

His face heats slightly at the contact and, not for the first time, he curses his complexion. But that doesn't stop him from squeezing Lahri's hand back. "Please take care of yourself, alright? I mean it when I say you owe me a long and happy life."

“A debt to pay.” He smiles. “I will not forget.” His reluctance to let go of his hand keeps him in contact. His own hands feel far rougher than Delton’s.

Delton squeezes his hand another time, a smile on his face. "As much as I enjoy our time together friend," too much. Stop it, Delton. You'll get yourself killed, "I must go. Duty calls, unfortunately ." "Be well, my friend."

“Be well.” He wants to say more. Things that in this strange world of stone and steel sound so alien. He daren’t. He holds his tongue and lets his hand drop back to his side.

Delton gives him a lingering smile, tucks the blanket around him, and leaves. He doesn't look back. That road paves the way to Hell, after all.

There is little else to do but rest, and to count his lucky stars that it was Delton who came to his aid, and not some other quack who would have sent him packing to the asylum. After a day he is able to sit. After three days, he can stand. He grows thinner, faded by illness as he had seen people do a hundred times before. Jacob and the rest of the Jackdaws keep him fed, but the damage is done. Within a week he is walking, albeit with a cane. He takes himself to visit the horses in the yard and feeds the swallows that roost in the barn. He keeps thinking about the man who saved his life. How he might possibly repay such an act of kindness. He may never see him again, of course… and that thought is worse than any other.

Rumours from south of the river permeate the city. There is chatter among the diocese of a girl gone missing. A girl who was supposed to meet her uncle in Shoreditch a week ago and was not seen. She had travelled into London from the Norfolk broads, likely by boat, but had become waylaid along the way. Word was passed to Mr Hawke’s deputy, the eponymous Jackdaw, Mr Corvid, and he agreed to help the authorities in the search. The trouble is, he says, most who go missing from the waterways do not want to be found. Still, the news is concerning. The girl was meant to be brought to the city to seek help for her mental disposition. Without help… who knows what might happen. Perhaps she is dead already. There are whispers, not among the clergy or the finer men of society but among lamplighters, night soil men and chambermaids, that people have been going missing from the waterways for some time. Mostly refugees, strangers and foreigners. People who would not be missed.

The murmured rumours do not reach Loris’ ears, and for that he is glad. Corvid, in his generosity, took coin from Mr Hawke’s bursary to grant him passage for the day to Hyde Park. Here he came to watch the deer.

Delton has long fit in better with the servants than the elite. That didn't change just because the Church commissioned him to work for them. He's used to the sneering, the pointed remarks about his hair, the way only his stuff ever seems to be misplaced. But, he grins and bears it. It could be so much worse, after all. So, when the servants start whispering about disappearances - of foreigners going missing on the waterways - Delton is there to hear it. It makes disquiet pool in his belly. Once, not so long ago, he worried he was traveling on a barge with trafficked persons. Now, he wonders if he somehow stumbled upon a man far more powerful than a single bargeman doing the same. But, Corvid was emphatic that he not go to the docklands. He didn't say anything the night and morning of Lahri's illness, but there was a pinched look on his face at him being the one there. So, instead, he takes to sitting in Hyde Park and people and animal watching. He doesn't have to be at work this day and, here in this little shot of green in the middle of industrial London, he feels less homesick.

He has never been to this park before. Among the preened and well dressed pedestrians of the London social scene, he looks terribly out of place. Still he knew where he was going and had done his best to look respectable, by their standards. He had brushed as much coal dirt from his waistcoat as he could and had crammed his feet into Jacob’s best riding boots, a few sizes too small for him but still manageable. He wore his smartest working trousers and rolled up his shirt sleeves to feel the cool of the misty air against his forearms - he remained blissfully unaware that his lack of an overcoat was most unorthodox. His hair he had tied into a knot and tucked beneath his hat, doing all he could to fit himself in among the locals but such a thing is difficult when you are over six foot tall, tattooed and distinctly the wrong ethnicity. But none of that matters. He watches the deer for some time, memories of bush hunting long past making him smile, when he and his sisters used to track anoa through the rising damp after the rains. His stomach rumbles, craving food he hasn’t smelled in years. Feeling homesick is a common symptom in the displaced. He finds himself distracted again, thinking of colourful leaves and the imagined green spaces Delton spoke of. He paints images in his mind’s eye of how they might look.

Delton slowly walks around the park, most of the other pedestrians giving him a wide berth. It's nothing he isn't used to, but it still stings. His long overcoat is buttoned up, his hair not tucked into his cap for once. There's the stereotypical London chill in the air and he's always ran colder than most. But, what catches his eye isn't the deer that graze around the park's grasses. No, it's a large figure who seems even more out of place than he. It's Lahri. He can't help but smile and start to approach.

It’s so rare for anyone to approach. People tend to give Loris a wide birth, unless they’re spoiling for a fight. He turns around expecting to see a headstrong youth looking to cause trouble. He never fought back, but it was the aspiration of some men to try and goad the tall foreigner into violence. Just to watch his fall. He is, however, pleasantly surprised. His face breaks into a warm, wide smile. “Delton.” He says brightly. “Why are you… you are not following me are you?” He doesn’t mean for it to sound self indulgent. He cannot parse any other reason why the man might be here at the same time.

Delton laughs a little at that, "No...I tend to come here on days where I'm feeling particularly homesick." Even a man as even-keeled as Delton can struggle with the fact that he's always seen as the "other." "It's just good fortune that you happen to be here too." He takes in the other man. He's lost weight, unfortunately, but he doesn't seem too unsteady or any such things. "You are alright? I wish I could've come to check on you again but Mr. Corvid made it rather clear I should stay away from the docks."

“What Corvid says is best… that is usually best.” He nods. His unwavering faith in the man is commendable. “Is this like where you are from? It reminds me of my home too.” He nods. Though his similarities are quite a stretch. This is as close as he has come to jungle in a long time. He shifts his weight, leaning on his walking stick to spare his still healing leg.

Delton laughs again, "Closer, but not quite. Still far too maintained. I imagine it pales in comparison to Java." Indonesia is known for jungles, not carefully tailored green spaces. He immediately clocks the shift in weight, his healer hat slipping on. "Would you prefer to sit? I don't want you on that leg for too long, if we can help it."

“Java has fog like this too. You can see the animals in shadows like those deer.” He points over to where the herd grazes. “But the trees are not the same. No. Quite different.” He looks at Delton as he speaks. He is so thoughtful. It’s a rare thing in this country, he has found. “I would like to sit.” He nods.

Delton nods and leads Lahri over to a bench, still within view of the herd. "Yes, your trees do not lose their leaves, yes? It must look very different." He has a smile on his face as he watches the herd. He's made a friend and that's beating back the homesickness, just a little.

“No. We have rains, but the trees do not become bare.” He sits easily, straightening his wounded leg in front of him. “I am much better. Thank you.” He smiles at Delton. For a slight man he is a curious thing. Loris would wager there is strength behind those eyes that most would not see. It is not a weak man that is able to stare down death and cause her to retreat.

Delton gently reaches out and pats the man's bicep, "I'm glad to hear that. I want you to be well, my friend." He will still watch Lahri closely, make sure he doesn't overextend himself. Stubbornness doesn't serve the sick and injured well, after all. "And everyone else is...okay? I've heard some...concerning things, recently..."

The muscle twitches under his touch. He may have lost weight but Loris’ strength remains held in his arms beneath the slightly damp fabric of his shirt. He pats a hand over Delton’s against his arm, he quite likes the contact. “Everyone is fine… I think. What have you heard? Has something bad happened?”

Delton cheeks pink a little more at the casual contact, pulling away - not quickly, but to try and retain some of his decorum and dignity. "I have heard...of people going missing. I had hoped it was no one that you knew."

"Missing?" He looks immediately concerned. The worry in his eyes is a bright flash. "No... no I've not known anyone that has gone missing... who is it that is missing?" He looks back over his shoulder as if some shrouded villain may jump out of the fog. "People from this side of the river... they usually do not worry about people from the dock."

Delton feels guilty to have clearly caused distress for the other man. "Lahri, a young girl went missing. She was meant to meet her uncle in Shoreditch and never made it. There's also been...rumors among the students that there's been many foreigners who go missing at the docks." He's not wrong that people on this side of the river don't worry about people from the docks. But, Delton's not just anyone. "I'm sorry for causing you distress."

"No... no one I have known has gone. No one at the docks has disappeared at all." He frowns, wringing his hands together as he thinks. "Unless it's the people who have no homes to go to yet."

"That's a relief to hear. Again, they're just rumors. I don't know the truth to them beyond the girl who went missing." Delton doesn't talk about his theory that the missing people might end up at the docks. That's not for him to say.

Loris is quiet. His brow creased as he searches his mind. “… we stopped a gravel barge this week. Bringing people into London. We didn’t not take anything just chased away the lost people.” He bites at his short thumbnail. “That is when I wounded my leg… so I may have missed something.”

"Lahri, friend, what you have to do for the sake of your...employer," he says the word with thinly veiled disgust, "doesn't reflect on you. I don't blame you." The Jackdaws have about as much choice as I have control over the weather, after all. He doesn't think any of them particularly like their jobs, nor does it care for them. He just feels guilty for even bringing it up.

“It’s not Corvid. If that’s what you think, he does not take people.” He holds up his hands. He feels a rising concern, as if he might get home to find his friend in shackles. He trusted Delton, but anything could happen. Life is unpredictable, Loris knows that better than most. “We took no people. We never take people. They always run.”

Delton shakes his head, "I wasn't referring to Corvid, Lahri. Corvid seems to be a good man, under the bluster." He sighs, reaching out to pat Lahri's knee, "I don't believe you or any of the Jackdaws are the problem here, I assure you. But I think we ought to not talk on this anymore, yes?"

he is no good at hiding his emotions. He nods, but still he looks troubled. People going missing is never a cause for concern until it’s someone who will be missed by someone who matters. He wonders silently if his family in Aotearoa are still looking for him.

2

Alvilda (Tav: Helaena+)

alvilda_

Bee (Tav: Delton)

traver1111

Close

Delton can't do what he wants. Can't investigate himself whether the people at the docks have been trafficked. Instead, he just has to sit here with his friend and hope that everything will be okay. Even if dread pools in the pit of his stomach.

“Are you looking for the missing girl?” He looks back at Delton, and for a moment he seems to lift. “I could help. Just in case… I probably will not find anything but I can try.”

Delton shakes his head and says, "I haven't been formally tasked with it, no. But I'm sure her family would like to see her home." But he looks seriously at Lahri, "But Lahri, I don't want you to put yourself in a position where you could get blamed for her disappearance, you here? I think...I know that people here just want to blame people like us for the things that happen. And I don't want you to risk getting hurt."

“Hmm.” He doesn’t answer, but he’s quite sure he’s going to investigate regardless. As much as he can in his limited capacity, anyway.

"Lahri, please promise me. I couldn't live with myself if you got hurt." Because of me. You're the first friend I've had in a long time.

“Delton if a girl is missing we should find her. She is more important.” He’s quite sure of that. Young and vulnerable people are far more valuable than defending his own life. “I can write to you, if I see anything strange.”

Delton sighs, frustrated. He deflates slightly, "It's not that she's not important. I just worry that they'll blame you and proceed to write her off as good as...gone." Dead. "That doesn't help her get found."

“Then I will look silently.” He nods. There’s no changing his mind.

He's chewing on his cheek, very frustrated even though he's trying his hardest not to show it. "You are...very stubborn."

“It is… it is my finest feature.” He grins at the man. An endearing broad grin. “Do you read Arabic?”

It's impossible to not smile back, helplessly endeared by this man. Oh, he's so screwed. "I'm not the...strongest in it. But I can make do. So, yes, I can. It just takes me a while."

“I… cannot read English.” He feels embarrassed to say it. He’s been repeatedly informed that his lack of knowledge of the English language makes him simple… despite the fact he can speak three others and write two.

2

Alvilda (Tav: Helaena+)

alvilda_

Bee (Tav: Delton)

traver1111

Close

Delton smiles at that, "Then I can write out my letters in Arabic, and write the English translations to help you learn, yeah?" He knows how hard it is to learn a new language, much less all on your own. "It will probably make your life a little easier if you can read signs and postings, after all."

“You… you would do that to help me?” He looks like a rabbit caught in a lamplight, his face softening.

Delton looks puzzled at his confusion, "Of course I would, Lahri. I know how hard it is to be thrust into a world you don't quite understand. If I can make it easier for you, I will."

He thinks, and then nods. “Yes alright. I would like to learn from you.” And then, even when the missing girl’s disappearance is resolved, he can stay in contact with Delton. That makes him hopeful.

Delton's smile is sunshine bright at that. Really, he just wants to help. Especially when he knows that's the most he'll ever be allowed. "I'm glad. And maybe you can have the boys help you, if you can find time? Repetition and practice is very important to learning. Maybe you can teach them Arabic in exchange?"

He knows Thomas cannot read or write. Mr Flowers is difficult for Loris to communicate with and Jacob and Corvid are often far too busy. But he smiles nonetheless. “I will ask them. I am glad I met you Delton. You are kind to keep helping me.”

"No, I'm just trying my best, s'all." He ducks his head, shrugging off the compliment, "You deserve it, Lahri."

He frowns and looks down at his hands, then back up at the redhead with a renewed determination. “In my family, saving a life is the most admirable act.” He reaches to close his large hand over Delton’s. It’s a sign of affection he almost had beaten out of him… Almost. But not quite. “You are allowed to feel proud. I would not be here, if not for you. And you still give.”

Pride cometh before the Fall. He stares down at their entwined hands, trying to will his face to cool down. "I just did my best, Lahri. That's all we can do. I...don't need to feel pride for doing what I'm supposed to do."

Englishmen recoil at familiar touch between men. Delton doesn’t recoil. Perhaps there is more affection there… perhaps there is *something*… Loris hasn’t dared to entertain any thoughts of romance since leaving cool shores on the other side of the world. “See… you English.” He shakes his head with a laugh. “You need to learn pride. You need to learn to take pride in things other men are grateful for. It should be… what is the word… timbal balik.” Reciprocal.

Delton tilts his head, unfamiliar with the term. "...I fear that my pride would only be another slight against me, Lahri." He doesn't need to add to his list of sins. He's already condemnable enough. Pride clearly means something different to Lahri. Something not to be ashamed of. But Delton can't think of any way to have pride without sinking further into sin.

It’s something he, unfortunately, understands. If young men are taught not to have pride then they will have no sense of self. With no self confidence they will not argue. To deem pride a sin is an act of coercion. “… I will be proud of you, then.”

Delton's smile is a little confused, but grateful all the same. "Thank you, Lahri. That...means a lot."

He gives his hand another squeeze before letting go. “It’s okay. And we will answer the question of where this girl has gone.” He doesn’t realise he has been given no address to send mail to. But that problem will arise in its own time, and Loris is easy to reach. For now, at any rate. While Mr Hawke is abroad. “Thank you, again, for your company. Delton.”

Delton smiles at that, before taking out a little scrap of paper from his satchel. He scribbles down his address. "I'm sure your friends might be able to help you with the postage. If not, I'll mail you within the week." His cheeks are a little pink, "And thank you, Lahri. For everything." He's going to sit here for a while, regardless of what Lahri does. He's got a lot to think on.

He stands with some discomfort, but it doesn’t show unless you see the blanching of his fingers where they grip the walking cane. The journey away from the park is bittersweet. A farewell to the leafless trees, the deer, and to Delton. The coach takes him back over roads and bridges to the grey and brown vistas of the dock, his heart sinking as he steps once again into cold and lifeless territory. He visits the horses where they are stabled, treating each one to a good scratch and a handful of oats. He muses on how long it must have been since they last felt soft ground beneath their feet instead of cobbled stone. For two days he listens. He takes tea at the pub and listens. He helps with the sack trucks in the yard and listens. On the third day he sends his first letter, the address written in English in a well rehearsed, cursive script that spoke of an expensive education. The letter within is in a different hand. The text within is not in english but in inked, precise arabic script. “My dear friend, I have as of yet heard nothing of any missing girl, or any missing folks at all. God be kind, they are all safe and whole. I suggested to Mr Corvid that it might be beneficial to our investigation that you accompany us on next Saturday’s eve when we take a timber float coming down from the forests. He said this would not be wise. If nothing else the smell of felled wood will be a reprieve from the coal smoke and road dust. I shall keep my ear to the ground. Bintang Lahri.”

After receiving the letter from his tiny landlady (and dodging her attempts to set him up with a woman from their church), Delton sits down at his little writing desk to read the letter. Did...Lahri invite me to a robbery? Of a timber boat? Of course, Lahri couldn't know that his father is a lead merchant in timber but...woah. At least the language is vague enough that people might not know what the Indonesian means. Delton's response is swiftly sent, written in both English and Arabic script, the English placed beneath the Arabic. There is one page of stationary translating Arabic sounds into English ones. "My dear friend, I hope that you are right about the missing people and that it is simply rumor. A better option would be to meet at the 'Knight's Shield' in the South Embankment. Neither of us will stand out, and we should be able to talk more freely. Stay safe and well, Delton Naïlo"

To say that Loris pours over the letter would be a grave understatement. He sends a short reply in the affirmative for the evening before the float heist. Then he commits himself to learning each english word by heart. He copies them out again and again, drawn on paper with ink, drawn in the coaldust, drawn with the tip of his finger in the air. He can match the sounds of the letters to the words as he knows them, slowly familiarising himself with the written words… however minute a window into the English language it may be. His Salah is again filled with thoughts of forests and fiery red hair. He wonders if Delton tied his thoughts of autumnal beauty to his own physical appearance deliberately. If so… well it is a master stroke in the act of seduction because it preys on his thoughts constantly. God must be laughing at him, he considers.

On the day of their proposed meeting, Delton tries to dress down, to match the area they are going. He has no intentions of standing out, after all. Nor does he want to ever make Lahri feel bad. Arriving early, he orders tea and decides to people watch.

He ties his hair and tucks it into his hat. He cleans the most of the dirt and coaldust from himself and, cane in hand, walks the slow walk to the riverbank, along the embankment to the Knight’s Shield. There is murmured talk among clusters of dock workers that he half hears as he passes through, though none of it is directed at him and none of it, it seems, concerns the missing people. He has heard Jacob and Corvid speak of this place, but Loris rarely frequented the same places. He liked to spend his time in the company of either himself or the horses. He removes his cap as he steps inside, and smiles when he spies distinctive red hair. He sits opposite, uninvited, yet eager and curious to yet again meet with his friend. “Have you been here before? It is a nice warm place. I like warm places.”

2

Alvilda (Tav: Helaena+)

alvilda_

Bee (Tav: Delton)

traver1111

Close

Delton startles momentarily, so engrossed in his people watching that he almost fails to notice it's Lahri who sits across from him. "Oh, hello friend. Yes, once or twice before, but usually during the day." When I want people to stop staring at me. "Your home was much warmer, yes? So that makes a lot of sense. How are you? How's the leg?"

“Hmmm sometimes.” He can’t stop smiling. He feels like a fool. “But it could be cold and wet too… not so much as this though. My leg is good… very good. Thanks to you.”

Delton can't help but return Lahri's smile, his own grin sunshine bright. "I'm glad that your leg is doing well. I hope that we can get you back to your former health soon. And everyone is okay? Yourself included?"

He averts his gaze. He feels warmth in his cheeks, but does not visibly blush. He’s quite unaware of how obvious his affections have become. “Everyone is okay yes. Mr Hawke is not yet back so we see not much of Corvid… but all else? Just fine.” He is offered ale and wine and whiskey, and for a moment looks tempted but opts instead for a cup of milk.

Delton hides his smile in his cup of tea, helplessly endeared by the other man. "I'm glad to hear that. Though I'm sad to hear that Mr. Corvid isn't around as much." He takes a slow sip, savoring the beverage, before saying, "And my letter was helpful? For the reading and writing of English?"

“Oh… yes! I was able to practice. Jacob offered help but I want to do it on my own.” With just you. That’s the caveat. But he daren’t say that out loud.

Delton smiles at that, "I'll have to put in some common words for you to learn in my next letter. I didn't want it to get too large, though." He hums a little, "I get that, but don't be afraid to accept help if you need it. English is a hard written language to learn."

“Oh, it’s okay you do not have to go to any extra trouble.” He says, lifting a steadying hand as if slowing a speeding horse. “I will learn. Don’t worry. I’m… I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell about the missing girl.”

Delton shrugs, "I like to teach and you like to learn. It's no trouble." At those words, his face turns sympathetic, "It's alright, my friend. You don't have to worry. We're all trying our best."

“I do not like thinking of families that miss someone.” He frowns, taking a sip of his milk. “Do you have any ideas? I can start to search, if you know where to look. You can stay away, if you like. I will write and tell you.” there’s an eagerness to him, a widening of his eyes. He wants to be useful, he wants someone to be pleased with his endeavours.

Delton nods, "Me neither. But, again, Lahri, I wasn't tasked with this job. I'm sure people are looking for her, but I...don't know anything more than that." He reaches over and gently pats Lahri's hand where it rests on the table, squeezing before pulling back, "You're a good man. I'm sorry we can't be of more help."

“Hmm… maybe we should… leave things.” He doesn’t sound like a man intent on leaving things. “Did you want to meet with me to talk about having no leads?” He is curious now. If Delton would let the matter drop, why call Loris all the way out here?

Delton blushes a little bit at that. "...I had hoped you considered us friends. That, um, we didn't need a reason to meet and chat." He feels absolutely embarrassed now, maybe having read Lahri wrong the entire time. He didn't want to see Lahri because of the things the Indonesian could do for him.

The whole of Loris seems to lighten. To change in response. “I think I would like that. If you want to meet and talk.” His infectious smile only warms further. His brown eyes creased in fondness. “I have few, I came here five years ago, a hundred days at sea from Aotearoa, my father’s country. English ships are… they are not comfortable. But I made friends. And then when I came here, I found no one except horses and small birds.” He sighs a little. “They are good to see but… hmm… it is poor conversation.”

2

Alvilda (Tav: Helaena+)

alvilda_

Bee (Tav: Delton)

traver1111

Close

Delton can't help but smile back, no longer hidden behind his tea. His eyes are a little sad at what he hears. "I'm sorry you haven't found too many people here. I'd love to meet and talk. I enjoy your company, Lahri." His smile turns a little shy.

“I enjoy your company too.” Loris’ smile is less shy. He has never been taught to fear his affections. His recent dry spell was more due to a lack of interest in anyone than any fear of repercussion. To Loris, however, Delton seemed inviting. “I can come to you. If you want. You have an apartment yes?”

Delton smiles, a little confused. "Yes, you can come visit. It's the same address as my postal address, friend." He's clueless, bless him.

“When?” He asks. He leans forward across the table, a thread of hair straying from his little topknot. His eyes widen still. Big brown eyes round as the moon. “Now?”

Delton's eyebrows crease even more. He looks absolutely confused. "I suppose?" He's confused as to why Lahri wants to be alone. Maybe he doesn't feel like talking in English and would feel more comfortable talking in Arabic...

He laughs, an almost disbelieving little laugh. God has it really been over five years… anxiety already begins to pool in his stomach, making him feel a little curious. He downs his milk. “I will follow. I will follow you.”

Delton was almost finished with his tea, so he simply places down the cup and pays for their beverages. He invited Lahri out, so it makes sense to pay, right? Then, he leads them out into the London mist.

He pays as well, and Loris feels a swell of excitement and new, effervescent anticipation. He follows, the tap tap tap of his cane loud in the echoing backstreet.

Delton leads him through the streets of London, slow to match the other man's gait. He's still rather confused, but, well, that's not that unusual. He lives in a middle class neighborhood were there are a few immigrant families. Enough that Delton doesn't get a second look. He'd argued for it with the diocese because it's far, but he didn't feel like being a target. He quietly greets his landlady, who's in the landing. She smiles at the both of them and shoos them upstairs, because she wants to get to bed. So he opens the door to his apartment and lets Lahri inside.

For once he doesn’t think about how conspicuous he may look. Not many men exceed six feet in height and he is often something of a curiosity, even without the inked lines on his face. He greets the landlady politely before stepping into fine rooms, taking off his cap. His eyes chase after Delton, his gaze anticipatory. “I had hoped my heart had not been false, and that your mind aligned with mine.” His words are almost breathless. With no hesitation he steps into Delton’s personal space and leans down to claim his lips in a swift kiss.

Delton's eyes go wide, as Lahri leans down and kisses him, freezing for a moment. Oh something was definitely lost in translation. And really we shouldn't... He kisses back anyway, because he's always been a weak man. And, yes, maybe it will be his shame, but he genuinely likes Lahri. Likes the way Lahri makes him feel. Maybe it will send him to Hell. He doesn't really care, at this moment.

Loris was never taught shame in affection. There were some of his faith that would condemn this, but that line of thinking had not passed into his little part of the world. And Delton was kissing him back… why should he even consider that this might be conflicting? He cups his large hands around the sides of Delton’s head, cradling him as though her were a raft of precious diamonds. He felt cool, as if the night air had chilled him more than it had Loris. He didn’t like that. “Are you cold? Shed your fog-wet overcoat. Warm your skin.” he speaks low, soothing, in a language more familiar to him than English.

Delton's eyes are blown wide and it takes him a few seconds to understand what Lahri said to him, shuddering instead at the tone of his voice. "I'm always cold, Lahri," he's shedding his overcoat as Lahri watches, responding in Arabic in turn. He can't help but reach out to cradle Lahri's jaw in his hands, "You'll have to get used to it."

“No, Delton. I shall keep you warm.” His answer is softly spoken in English. He takes the opportunity to shed his own coat and waistcoat. The shirt beneath is a coarse linen, his trousers held up by thick braces over his shoulders. His hair frays from its tether as he returns to kiss the man again, letting his hands roam into the feathers of his crimson hair. “I had dreamed you would feel the same affection for me I have for you. For days I have been able to think of little else.” His dreams, his prayers, his fever… they had all been haunted by shades of crimson.

Delton can't help but run his hands through Lahri's hair, now loose from the top knot before coming to rest on the man's broad shoulders, gentle. "I didn't imagine you could ever think of me in the same way." He hadn't even hoped so. That felt like a means of torturing himself.

“I cannot think of you any other way.” He huffs, again switching language. His breath is short, his hands draw from the back of Delton’s skull around his throat to his chest, then around to his hips as he pushes forwards to kiss him again. He is easy to kiss, easy to fall against in deep affection as he draws them closer together, his hands a firm guide. “Will your landlady hear?”

Dellton pauses for a moment. The walls aren't thin here. He can never hear his landlady coming and going or doing her normal chores. But... "It's probably best if we're quiet. And stick to Arabic..." He reaches up to deadbolt the door behind him, just in case.

He looks back at the door as it is bolted. His heart is racing, his blood rising. “Then I have a greater means by which to tell you how beautiful you are. This land’s tongue does not have the words to compare.” He reaches for his hands, they feel much more suited to careful pursuits like penmanship and medicine than his own broad palms. “Would you allow me to have you wholly? God has given me only dreams of what may lay beneath your clothes. I wish to see the truth.”

Delton's face flushes, looking down at their joined hands before back up at Lahri's face. He leans up to capture the other man's lips in a kiss. "Yes, you can have all of me. I hope...I live up to your dreams..." Because he knows Lahri will live up to his. He hadn't allowed himself to go down that road when conscious but his unconscious mind had run wild, images that served to shake him to his core. "You've been a companion in my dreams since we met, haunting me because I thought I could never have you."

He doesn’t speak again, but he surges forwards, his hands less cautious as they run from his hands over his arms, ruffling the fabric of his shirt. He kisses him with an unending, wild fervour. Were he not such an inherently gentle soul it might have been overwhelming. His fingers busy themselves with the fastings of Delton’s shirt, eager to pry their way in. He considers for a moment that they are still merely two steps from the door, but it does not matter. It is bolted, the walls are thick, and Loris is far from precious about making love on a feather bed.

Delton meets Lahri's kiss with his own server, hands running up to tangle in the long hair, careful not to pull too hard. He slowly starts to guide Lahri back toward the door to his bedroom, where, if nothing else, he has oil to make this entire process easier. He gently nibbles on Lahri's lower lip, sucking it into his mouth.

He makes a small sound of disquiet at Delton’s teeth on his lip, and he follows with a growing hunger. “Have you done this before?” he whispers, still touch-close, Delton’s lips brushing his own. “I would not wish you harm, I will be the softest touch if that is what you need.” He finishes his tussle with the shirt fastings and his palms press to the bared flesh beneath. He shivers at the precious contact.

The new contact on his bare chest makes him shudder in anticipation. But, he can't help but flush at the question. "Not-not, all the way, no. Just some rather...unfortunate fumblings, in my youth." There isn't much opportunity or interest, after all, in an Irish boy. Why would anyone risk it all for him?

“Unfortunate… I can make this fortunate for you. My beautiful fire…” He looks to his crimson hair, pressing a kiss to his brow. “We can be slow. We can take care.” He kisses him again, ever chasing the brush of his lips. The lingering richness of the tea still clung to his breath.

Delton can't help but smile shyly. "I trust you. My star, a beacon in the night..." He keeps pushing them toward the bedroom, having to keep stopping to stand on his toes and meet Lahri's kisses.

He pries himself away reluctantly as they reach the bedroom, and he steps back to begin shedding his clothes. His torso, Delton has seen well enough from his septic convalescence. The tattoos on Loris’ face end at his collarbones, under which a patch of pale skin like a birthmark stands proud. The burn scar over his shoulder is almost invisible in low light. He removes the rest of his clothing carefully, his boots a heavy thud to the ground and his trousers rumpling in an untame heap until all that he is is 5 bare. It makes his stomach flutter nervously. He is no dainty or delicate creature, befitting of sketches or paintings of high society. Loris is long and well muscled, but not too wide in the shoulder with it. He has broad feet and hands, and the overall appearance of one who grew rapidly to an impressive height rather than a slow gradual maturation. As if puberty hit him like a train as a boy. He is well worked, rough at the edges, and strangely embarrassed. “Sorry… I am not made for dainty affairs, I have the hands of a workman.”

Delton takes the time to shed his own shoes and pants, leaving himself bare to Lahri's eyes. He can't help but reach out to touch Lahri's chest, his hands skating across the birthmark and burn scar, hands almost impossibly gentle. "I don't know how I could ever complain, when faced with such beauty," he leans forward to press a kiss over Lahri's heart, "...I can't help but feel inadequate, compared to such a work of art."

His breath hitches at the gentleness of Delton’s fingers. The care that whispered behind his touch made Loris’ heart leap. It is a gift to see him, planes of pale skin that in the lamplight seemed golden compared to his own copper hue. He is keen, his hands immediately seek go roam over as much flesh as possible. He watches the path of his own hands as they travel up his arms, down over his shoulders, across his chest and stomach, around his waist and hips, over his ass. “There is not a single part of you that is inadequate.” He breathes. He lets his lips stray to Delton’s throat, arching downwards to do so. “I wish to touch you.” he whispers against swiftly warming skin, waiting for explicit permission. His hands hover, anticipatory, over the arch of Delton’s hips.

Delton's hands wander over Lahri's shoulders and arms, down his back and skating over the other man's ass before settling on his hips. There's strength in every inch of the other man, corded muscle that handles Delton with such gentleness one might assume that the redhead's something precious. He bares his throat to the other man, a quiet whine coming out of him at the attention, "Please touch me, darling." His hands tighten on Lahri's hips, thumbs rubbing circles into the bone.