tergiversant | IC Inbox

[For days now, Gilbert had avoided Oz's room. The first two days he'd opened the door, glanced the space and let his heart race with the possibility that this had all been a terrible joke played on him, and that Oz had been sitting in here waiting for him to arrive all that time. But since then, he's tortured himself even worse by only walking past the door, letting his fingers linger on the doorknob, and then walking away without ever looking inside. Today, however, he knows that if he doesn't pack up Oz's things soon, they'll gather dust and be in even worse shape for when his young master returns.

And he will return, he's sure.

But rather than the empty room he'd expected, there sitting on his master's bed reading his master's books and invading his master's privacy is one (1) Duke Rufus Barma. A man whom Gilbert has never much liked to begin with.

He stares open-mouthed and wide-eyed, part of him hoping that this is nothing more than one of Barma's illusions strategically placed to confound and infuriate him. Whatever his intention, it's working.]

Duke Barma - what are you--?!

[It's as Gilbert is entering that Rufus finds the small... rather pointed note from Oz in the forward of one of the books to him.

What an annoyingly cheeky brat. Without looking up at Gilbert, he tears the page delicately, and tosses it into the small fire he'd set up for his own comfort.]

Beyond what is obvious? Or shall I recap for thee?

[He doesn't know what was on that page, only that it's from a book that is sitting in Oz's room, and he assumes must have belonged to his young master. What if he wanted to read it again when he returned? What the hell is the duke trying to prove by burning it?

Gilbert startles, rushes forward and throws himself to his knees in front of the fire, his hands darting into the flames to grab the page and try to extinguish it against the brick. Most of it is burned through already; he won't be able to make out any of the words any longer, and whatever damages is done to his hands he doesn't seem to even notice.]

What do you think you're doing?! These belong to Oz, you can't--!

[He cuts himself off in favor of patting the page flat with his red palms.]

[Anyone else, he might have actually made some move to stop. The man was a marksman after all, and a maimed hand would reduce his usefulness... However, Arthur Barma's true accounts were rather specific about who and what all of the players were. As it was, he watches the young man scald himself with dispassionate interest.

Still... He might as well attempt some good will. After all, it would be annoying to relay the contents of the note in the spirit of it's opposite.]

These hath been lent to me. The forward had little to digest, except a small missive to me from thy master, read and disposed of... accordingly.

If there is any left, ye shall see the truth of mine words.

What...?

[He stops himself, finds his breath strained and rattling in his chest. Very slowly, he turns his gaze down to the page and fights to see through the burned edges and creases. There, if he squints, he can barely make out the sweep of Oz's cursive, a few stray letters that formed words that were never meant for Gilbert's eyes.

He sits back, droppings his hands to his sides and stares down at the burnt page, his eyes as empty as the silence that now hangs between them.]

Why...why would he...?

[The only answer is the soft rustle of a page turning. He's hardly one to volunteer information.]

[His burnt hands turn to angry fists, and he twists around until he's up on one knee staring partway over his shoulder at the duke.]

Answer me, Duke Barma! Why would Oz turn over his books to you?! What use are they to you?!

[He looks up from the page, studying the young Nightray. The sigh is audible over the crackle of the fire and the anger in Gilbert's ears.

He picks up the books he'd sorted and stands, smoothing his robes with his free hand.]

The question ye art asking is "Why hath my master left me behind again?" Steeped in the jealousy of a note before his leave, I imagine.

That answer ye crave was not the one I set aflame.

[And turns for the door.]

Edited (Because repetition. Because repetition. Because repetition. ) 2014-01-19 18:56 (UTC)

[Whether it's the sting of truth or simply the general frustration that accompanies spending any time at all with Rufus Barma, Gilbert winces and lurches forward, stumbling at full speed to cut off the man's path for the door. The anger that clogs his ears is also blocking off the flow of common sense.]

I won't let you take anything of his without a real explanation!

[There had been something that was close to amiable on Duke Barma's face. That placid mask had a casual air, though it did little to soften his words.

It's gone now.]

Move.

[Not the right thing to ask of a desperate, broken man.

He stays rooted to the same spot, holds out one still red hand.]

Give those back.

Nothing of this world was his. Nor is it mine. [Each word is sharp, consonants bitten off. His expression darkens into clear anger.]

What use they are to me, is to our goal, and they shall be little more than a sentimental doorstop to ye. And that tis why I have them.

I find thy devotion admirable, but my patience is gone.

[Is is really nothing more than sentimentality, he wonders. It's true, the sight of Oz's handwriting burned to ash had been painful to see, but that has nothing to do with it now. He only needs the truth that Oz had kept from him. Why had he promised these things to Barma? What sort of agreement had he made with the man without telling his servant?

Maybe it's just his own ignorance that hurts so bad, but he refuses to budge from where he's standing.]

Don't talk about him...like he had no impact on this world!

[He'd left himself on everything he'd touched. There's a closet full of trinkets and souvenirs that belonged to him and no one else.]

Whatever reason you have for withholding information - it won't help our goal either! So tell me the truth!

Ye hath offered me nothing.

[It's at that very moment that the enormous, flat talons on the Dodo reaches through the door and closes around the Nightray with a splintering of wood, intending to catch and throw him aside into the hallway.

He didn't dare summon the real Dodo. Not with the Raven's power, not with the Mad Hatter so close. But what's the difference of a convincing enough illusion.

But he didn't intend to kill the man, either.]

Thus I owe thee nothing. Waste not my time!

Edited (Because fuck you english. That's why.) 2014-01-20 02:54 (UTC)

[The illusion is more than enough to fool Gilbert. He hears the wood crack, feels the talons around his middle, and then all at once he's dragged out into the hallway and tossed aside. He hits the opposite wall and slides to the ground, landing on one knee with a painful crack.

Raven stirs, but Gilbert doesn't call him out just yet. He's hovering just there beneath the surface, but unlike the last time that Gilbert had to use the power of his Chain to negate the Barma duke, he's not so quick in his current state.]

[Rufus Barma steps into the hall after him, high heels crisp on the wooden floors. The Dodo's 'summoning' is released in a flurry of black feathers and Barma pulls out his fan, the edged blades covering half of his face.]

Pathetic.

Thou art a tool, dulled by grief and fear. Wish of me thine answers? Sharpen thy resolve, Raven.

[He stumbles to his feet, bracing himself against the wall as he watches those feathers scatter. It hasn't yet occurred to him that he's once more the victim of an illusion and not a real threat. Probably it won't take much longer, though.]

Answers...what answers did you give him? What did you give in exchange for that?!

[The bruises are real enough, as the blood vessels beneath Gilbert's skin expand to dump their contents, the nerves believing the injury. Though like any injury, its permanence was doubtful.]

Tis as I spake unto thee, a moment past... Ye hath nothing to offer me as ye are. As long as thou shalt have me as such, I remain allied.

Tis all ye art entitled to.

[He turns to walk down the hall, robes billowing around him.]

[ As Barma turns, he'll find himself face to face with a certain somebody. A somebody who's got a particular talent for turning up at the worst possible time. ]

Dear me. Walking away when someone's talking to you, whyyy....

[ He has a bag of caramel corn and he crunches down on a handful, noisily. ]

...that's not very nice~!

[Gilbert is still standing on the other side of the hallway, watching Barma's retreating back and knowing that there's nothing he can do if he follows him. His Chain will destroy this hallway, and Oz's remaining possessions with it, and wouldn't he be angry to return tomorrow and have nothing to wear?

Break's presence shouldn't surprise him, and yet somehow it does. He watches from a distance, still leaning against the wall.]

[Of course. He stops, assessing the Hatter's mood as well as anyone can.]

Nice is a close kin of pity.

I suppose you're right. That explains why Lady Sheryl is so nice to you, hm?

[ Crunch! ]

Did you get lost, by the way?

[Just pretend he's a fly on the wall...!]

[For Rufus Barma, the large shows of anger were always just that: Shows.

This was a simple stilling, eyes narrowing on the Hatter.]

A pointless query. Ask what ye mean to know, Hatter. Or step aside.

Hm?

[ The most innocent of innocent expressions. Okay, his gaze is glittering, but you know, apart from that. ]

I'm simply inquiring whether you're in your dotage. Cos it's a sign of senility, milord, losing your way in familiar places.

[ He licks his fingers. Candy corn is sticky, yo. ]

Or did you have some other reason for being in Oz's room? Any ideas, Gilbert?

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honestly I just like using this icon

It's a glorious one

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