The Streets and Connecting Alleyways

"Lo, the Wanderer, the Most Holy, and all the gods of Medan fuck us, but that was scary!" Silas, cursing all the gods he could think of, had sobered up considerably after the encounter in the tower, "I mean, what the shit was that thing? I thought for sure that the Dragon Spire was abandoned."

Pad, clomp, pad, clomp.  The mismatched shoes on Silas's feet echoed though the empty streets. His nerves were so shaken that he hardly noticed.  "What say we climb the Citadel instead?" Perhaps the man had not sobered up entirely. Badger might be game for such an adventure, but hopefully @kiera would have better judgement.

Ryden had followed her with an eerie quiet - one that would most likely be unexpected of him. The soft soles of his boots whispered across the cobblestones; the rich and soft jacket ghosted around him, intermingling with the inky blackness of the night - and yet still he made haste, tracking the turmoltuous hum of thoughts cascading from Genevieve.

He watched, from some distance away, as she came to a stop, wondering if he ought to intrude on this private and personal moment - but the more he considered it, the more adverse he became to the possibilities of what would happen should he not, so he paced down the street, along the opposite side to she, silent as ever, before coming to rest and taking a seat opposite to her, saying nothing, but just looking at her, with eyes full of sympathy, and regret, but... overwhelmingly, hurt. He felt, despite his better intentions rejected for reasons he didn't know. He didn't understand, and he wished he did.

Ryden looked across at Genevieve - a distraught mess, really - and a slight, gentle, wistful smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It was objectively odd, he decided, to be smiling, even barely perceivably as he was, but perhaps it was just a way of coping with how disasterous things had turned out to be.

He sat there, listening and watching, his legs extended over the guttering drains and crossed at the ankles, so that as little was touching the dirty pavements below. He chuckled - really, only an expression of resigned mirth as an irregular breath out - and shook his head as she apologised. He couldn't begin to understand what for.

"You keep saying that, but I do not understand what for. There is nothing to apologise for, Genevieve, for you have done nothing wrong - and you are no fool."

Ryden matched her language, speaking the Gauldish fluently and fluidly, as he would if he were speaking Basic. He wouldn't want to draw attention to the fact she was speaking in another language, after all.

Indeed, the woman had a bit better judgement than either of them - thankfully she had a lot less in her system by far. The idea of climbing the Citadel... which, as far as she knew, was a major place of military and importance.

Granted the idea seemed hilarious, but it would likely get them all in more trouble than she was willing to deal with. The half dragon had been a scary encounter as it was. She remained in stride beside Silas, who was likely still carrying the jolly old Badger. "I don't think that'll work. You're lucky enough to be able to walk straight, let alone try to climb a building - and a military one at that."

"I've been to the citadel before!" Badger blurted out as he sat atop Silas 's shoulders once more. "There's guards in that place like there's fleas on a mangy dog! I wouldn't be sup - surprised to get half way up the side of it and find one nailed there by his coat tails!"

Badger still didn't seem to realize the close call they'd had with the half dragon, and made no mention of it as Silas came up with a better idea at @kiera 's suggestion.

"Scramble up a pipe? With one hand.. one hand I tell ya!" Badger looked at the building, gazing up the side of it. "But just to be sure maybe I use both hands."

It was hard to say if she would have drawn away from Ryden Greyiron if he had tried to reach out to her again. She was feeling so very... so very disconnected from people, entirely by her own doing. But being alone for so long, feeling so detached from people -- and these hopeless feelings of unworthiness -- usually put so much strain on a soul. Made them, perhaps, desperate for a feeling other than the depths that Genevieve seemed to be drowning in.

Perhaps, had Ryden tried -- or if he'd try -- he'd be found with the enchantress in his arms again. Her gaze dropped to her hands as he began to speak, but the guilt remained thick upon her. She picked mildly at her nails, feeling too ashamed to look at him across the way. He spoke of Florian -- causing her to briefly glance up and across at him -- and then she lowered her gaze again, feeling wretched and terrible that he seemed to be...

... seemed to be offering himself to her, as if she had some sort of authority to judge him worthy.

As he apologized, she shook her head and dropped her hands. "Don't," she said in Gauldish, pushering herself up to stand again, too restless. She paced away, but then returned back to him. "Ryden, I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you. I have a wicked heart, and I've done such terrible things-- I live only to atone for all of the wrongs I've done and at no point in my life have I ever done anything that would make me worthy of someone like you," she rushed out at him, her big blue eyes full of all the genuine self-hatred and anguish she felt about herself, and him, and this situation. One hand was braced against her heart, as if the touch of her palm might stop it from shattering in her chest. The other was clenched tight, her nails pressing painfully into the skin of her palm.

"Stop being so understanding," she begged him. "What I have faced is a bed of my own making and I would feel -- I would feel so... so terrible to drag you down to lie with me in it."

It hurt Ryden to see this wonderously beautiful, talented and kind woman destroyed - nay, destroying herself - in front of him. She was so wrong to believe that she should have to atone for her moral transgressions in the past, because the past was the past, and as far as Ryden was concerned, that was all it was. He had spent too long hung up on his own past, never having learnt to grieve naturally, and move on, and had poured out all that... anger and loneliness into his "life's mission" which, while successful, could hardly ever be considered a success. The squandering of so many years and resources would forever be one of his deepest regrets - as would letting Genevieve leave tonight in the same state as she was now.

So, with that in mind, he sprang to his feet, moving in a strange rolling motion seemingly centred around the heels of his boots, stepping forward once confidently and extending a hand tentatively, not in a manner that would be perceived as invasive or threatening but merely inviting her to take it, steely grey eyes full of resolve and sympathy and, as much as she would dislike it, understanding.

"Genevieve, if I lie with you in your bed, it is as much by my own choice as yours - but I would rather drag you "up" to mine - and I say up, though it is not right, for you and I are not all that dissimilar. If it were that an eye was for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, then I would be both blind and mute, for I have done things in my past too that I am not proud of."

"But Genevieve - sweet Genevieve, fair and kind as a summer zephyr drifting gently across the blue sky - we cannot let our past control us, for it should not. Only our present should define us, and while we should take the past we have and learn from it, we should not enslave ourselves to it, because then we do not learn."

"I am being understanding because I do understand. You cannot be "unworthy" of me - there is no such thing, for any I know, but especially not for you, Genevieve. If yours is such a wicked heart, which I can ot conceivably see, and mine is so pure, then we must make a perfect pair - like day and night, or summer and winter."

"Someone so kind, so beautiful, so talented and intelligent - there could be no one more worthy, and I would be honoured to stand by my side. But if you insist that you will drag me down - then please, let me choose in which bed I lie. You are worth my attention and more, Lady Genevieve St. James . Please, please believe that - but I know how little difference words makes. You are worth something, Genevieve, but more importantly..."

"You're worth something to me."

His voice broke, the uncharacteristically husky tone brought on by the emotional energy of the environment giving way to a helpless plead momentarily. One armed stretched out towards her in the vague and ambitious hope that she'd take it, he felt quite the fool. He was getting in over his head. She was too much to deal with. Her emotions were explosive and dangerous. She had gone through such vast personal tragedy - and it was at this that Ryden put down his foot, for as bad as she had suffered, it could not have been worse than he. Surely, she must be able to repurpose that guilt and sorrow, and find a way to deal to it other than unexpected and intense outbursts - but really, that remained to be seen. 

Yet despite warnings going off, Ryden still found her so deeply vulnderable and connectable in her humanity that he couldn't help but gave an affinity for her, an affinity that led to overt lines such as his last. He still found something about her so expectionally attractive and magnetic that he was simply... drawn to her.

Ryden felt her palm slide into his, breathing a quiet sigh of relief. He wasn't sure quite what he would have done if she hadn't taken it - nor was he quite sure how that would have ended. But she had, so he pulled her in closer by it before wrapping his arms around her in a warm embrace. He had seen the very first misting of tears forming in her eyes, so he gently rubbed up and down her back, running his fingers idly through her hair.

"It's alright, Genevieve. It's going to be alright. I promise."

He spoke so softly, placating her in any way he could. It didn't matter to him if she cried on his shoulder - not one bit. Better that she be calm and sad than fierce and indignant. She seemed so scared, so... haunted and reticent about her past - as if she had done something greviously wrong, and that worried him, in some slight way - but he was not concerned, for he knew he was strong enough to protect her - and himself, too.

As he realised what the strange feeling near his chest was, he smiled - it was the now-slowing fluttering of her heart, pressed up against his own chest. She was truly like a flighty little bird, and it made her all the better. She felt so small, so delicate in his hands - even if he knew she was not, and he reflected on what a pair they made, dressed in their absolute finest clothing, clasping each other in the middle of a dark and dirty stteeet.

He felt connected to her - like they were meant to meet, like they had some sort of natural attraction. He had never been overt in his praise or his gestures, and tonight he had been especially expressive, even for him - and despite that, here they were. Yet, he felt comfortable, secure, safe - and he hoped Genevieve felt that, as they stood there, one arm wrapped around her back, and the other gently rubbing her hair, trying to be as comforting and eliciting as possible.