makinglies | Respite

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faerun

Respite

The lake is dark and calm with a small breeze by the time they arrive at its shores. The stars above reflect perfectly in the still waters before them, and a small copse of trees lines one side, starting on their side of the river and jumping along the other side.

Chris takes a moment to re-prepare the spell he hadn't been able to cast in five years and gestures vaguely to the area around them as a suggestion for what the others can do. Gathering in the forest, sitting on a nearby over-turned log, it didn't matter to him. What he needed was an hour without interruption.

He settles down on the ground and presses his hands together as he closes his eyes to focus on the image in his mind. Within minutes, the white, shimmering outline of a large building forms in thin air. The gentle glow of its light barely spreads from the growing structure.

As promised, it takes the full hour before the slowly filling-in form is complete and finishes with a jaunty, echoing click.

Chris takes a breath, now sitting in front of the stoop that looks annoyingly like the one he'd passed earlier in the night, and gets back onto stiff legs as the glow fades away, leaving smooth, but otherwise unremarkable, white stone behind.

"Here we are. Home for the next however long we need. I'll start working on food and water next." Once they're inside, anyway, which is why he takes back his things from where he'd left them and leads them into the temple, marked only with the carving of ravens on the black wood of the double doors.

Inside is something just shy of opulence. The same polished white stone makes the walls, though black and gold veins course through the marble. The floor is the inverse, a black stone with white, shimmering speckles like a night sky if looked at for long enough. A single window faced East high up on the wall. The temple was alight with sconces at regular intervals along the walls, illuminating an open area that held all the offerings of comfort Chris could think of.

A large hot-springs-like bath, complete with a miniature waterfall, took up the left side of the room and ran into a smaller, similar bath at dog-height. Next to it, covered by a retractable screen, was a shower. Along the back wall, a raven's head emblazoned the white wall in black and watched out over a set of tables, chairs, and a couple of sofas. The majority of the center was clear for walking, but the right edge and right side of the room held a deeply inset pit of pillows, cushions, and blankets in various soft (black and purple) fabrics.

Finally, in the middle of the right-hand wall, there were two closed doors that, when inspected, revealed one room with a large, soft chair and rug, while the other room was made of nothing but stone with jars, pitchers, and plates on shelves along two walls and a cork wall perfect for catching daggers on the other side.

"I hope it works for everyone. I didn't...I didn't make separate bedrooms this time. I didn't figure we would need them tonight."

♥

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No. No, this is exactly the kind of thing she doesn't want to think about right now. If she thinks on it too long, she'll ruminate on she's lost so many people in addition to her own past. Her nails dig into his hand unconsciously as her entire body tenses.

"Stop. Please, don't-- not right now. I can't." She can't or those tears threatening to fall will become a flood she'll want to hide from everyone. "I love you and I'm grateful to have you, but I can't think about all we've lost right now." Someday she'll be able to, but not today. Not this week. Maybe not until they're in the Wave. She doesn't know other than not now.

"You're right, I'm sorry, I shouldn't-" He blinks rapidly and clears his throat, trying to find that fleeting peace he had just moments ago.

He finds it in wrapping his arms around Amelia, in setting his chin on top of her head and encompassing her in his arms. Arms that are perhaps not as defined as they were a month ago, but still strong enough to keep her together. To keep her whole, and here.

He finds it in tilting her head up to look at him with a gentle nudge, in the kiss he presses to her mouth that's full of longing and affection and everything that he's missed for so long. Too long.

As ever, Wolfe finds his peace in the love he can show his partner.

Without knowing it, she needed this hold and that specific kiss. She needed to feel the way he tells her without words how much he cares and loves her. Sex is wonderful and making love is the culmination of everything, but it's not what she needs. All she needs is Wolfe: his heart, his chill, his arms, his hold. Him.

Her fingers rest gently against his cheek when they part, her breathing heavy but steady. Her eyes are red with unshed tears and she's still on edge, but she's solid again thanks to him.

How did she ever get so lucky as to find someone who can soothe as easily as he can rile her heart? It feels unreal at times, it was unreal for weeks without him, and she couldn't care less while he's holding her so close.

"I'm all right," she murmurs. "With you, I'm all right." She inhales slowly, holds her breath a little too long, then exhales to break her pattern of thoughts. A small smile finds her lips as she brushes his hair from his face in an effort to keep from kissing him again as she wants to. "I'll be all right when Chris comes back to us, too."

It takes less than half the time to find himself nearing the edges of the destruction they’d left last night when he flies. He can still see the tents of the joined forces, unchanged from how he remembers helping to set them. Of course, they wouldn’t have gotten far yet; there were probably some still healing or dealing with their dead. They wouldn’t head back home until tomorrow at the earliest. Some might even be staying to help.

What he sees for today as he tries to duck between the cloud cover is fishermen at the remains of the docks, working to shore up smoke-colored wood, and soldiers and civilians both combing through the ruins of the city, likely either for bodies or salvage. Certainly, he can see lines of the former being made along the Western front of the city, of bodies both new and old.

Morbidly curious as he is, he doesn't sweep low enough to see the dead's faces. He’d be more likely to be spotted that low, and the brief glimpses of a blond head lingering near them have him shying away, just in case. He wasn’t going to land at all, only glance and wonder and…check, but the sight of an older man and a soldier struggling with some rubble closer to the Eastern side of town pulls Chris closer.

He shouldn't intervene. He shouldn't get close enough to see…yet the rubble they're lifting is closer to half a wall, and the soldier seems to buckle like one of his legs seizes up, and Chris doesn't think before dashing down to catch the hunk of rock with them before it crashes onto the older man or whatever they’re trying to recover.

"Oh, Lord Sonom! I didn't right see you there, thank Lady of Joy you was happening by." The old fisherman greets Chris with a smile that clutches in the cleric's chest. "I thought you was keeping with the bodies after clearing the Western section."

That stood out as odd to him. Why would he leave the elderly and the infirm to do this kind of work when he could probably handle it better? The Western section of town...the West End and Golden Quarters made it up, but there probably wouldn't have been more bodies there than anywhere else. Nothing immediately jumped to him as to why he'd linger there. He didn't have time to think too hard on it with curious eyes on him.

"I still intend to, Mister Conners, but all need a walkabout sometimes, right? Besides, glad I did. Don't need to add fresh bodies to the lot."

He continues the conversation as if he's not some imposter and learns Conners and the young soldier -aide from Thentia hoping to do something with himself for once- were working to excavate a family Chris hadn't had much reason to interact with but once: the Thornesguld family...a long line of weavers in Melvaunt and one of the few families in the town with a basement. A basement they'd apparently fled to during the siege and had inadvertently made their grave in.

It takes some gentle redirecting, but Chris convinces the older man and the injured soldier that, of the three of them, he was the most hale to jump down into a hole and pull four bodies up. It was also a good excuse to allow him a chance to look around. People kept things in basements...things that wouldn't be missed if they vanished by the time anyone else could come down here properly.

He feels justified in his spur-of-the-moment choice when a small satchel he finds on a half-broken shelf starts to fill up with things he grabs. There's still a job to do, though, and the family in question is cowered at the back of the room, all barely touched by rot with how encased they'd been in the room, smoke, and ash. He can imagine it now: they likely escaped down here to hide from the invaders with the intention of coming back up when it got quiet. They wouldn't have planned on a clockwork monstrosity bringing their house down on top of the hatch that led to their hiding spot. They wouldn't have been able to escape...and with a dragon sitting on top of them, where would they have gone anyway? Hopefully, the smoke got to them before dehydration did.

He says a quick prayer as he lifts the small girl huddled in her mother's arms into his own and brings her back to the overly bright hole where daylight and air await her. The teen boy is next, then the mother, and finally the father, the soot of them rubbing off on him as sweat cut through the grime in lines. It wasn't easy work, but gods knew it helped some part of him to do it.

It takes a little more persuasion, but he finally convinces the men to leave him to get out on his own and start taking the bodies away for the service they deserved...which left him both to make another sweep of the room and escape before the confusion and questions followed. With his stolen sack stuffed with odds and ends and a small box with just a bit of money in it, snagged from a tall shelf, he leaves what things he thinks won't be useful to his group, but might be useful to others here, at the lip of the entrance...and finally Recalls himself back to the temple.

Sooty, sweaty, smelling of death and ash, Chris comes back into the temple and only then remembers he'd been barefoot, as the cold marble of the floor soothes some scrapes on his skin. Conners and the soldier either hadn't noticed or hadn't dared to ask. His eyes alight on the couple snuggled together, and he looks away again soon after. They looked...tired, tear-stained, but not more fretful than he might expect. Had they talked?

He decides, right now at least, he doesn't care. He holds the bag out to them instead. "Some clothes, fabric, a hoop and a single needle, and a few bobbins of thread. There's a box with about ten gold's worth of silver in it at the bottom. A few other things I thought might come in handy, but it's not much. Don't worry about where it came from; no one's left to miss it."

There's little identifying about the things he'd grabbed; the men's and women's clothing looked a bit out of fashion, but generic enough, and nothing held a name on it except the little box of money. Scratched on the front were the words: 'Sinead's horse fund.'

A myriad of things run through Wolfe's head when Chris returns. He looks soot-stained and tired, had he really gone into what's left of the streets of Melvaunt, even knowing the danger of his being found out? That was stupid and reckless and an indication of just how hard this is hitting him, being separated from everything he ever knew with the added pain of it being right there. He can imagine Chris reasoning himself that they needs supplies. Wolfe needs clothes, they need coin, so he would convince himself he'd have to go and search the ashes of his old life. Not close enough to be caught by the Guardians, but within the limits of what used to be the city.

All too clearly he can see Chris' cold practicality spearing through his emotions and wonders if he thought - hoped - it might overwhelm and deaden the pain. By the stoic look on his face, an outsider might think he'd succeeded, but Wolfe knows different. They all know different, familiar with the face of a man who instead of turning away from the source of his sorrow runs headfirst into it as if to prove it won't bother him. All it proves is it eats him up inside like it does the rest.

Wolfe shifts to reach for the bag to look through later, immediately setting it down on the floor so its not in the way, and offers an outstretched arm for Chris to come in close if he chooses. He doesn't say a word, letting his gaze say for him that he doesn't expect or demand Chris to accept, but he's here - they're here - if he thinks it would help.

Amelia looks up at their cleric returns to them, Patience on his heels. He looks tired, worn down in the way she remembers being so often after losing people, when she'd put her hands and skills to work to push down the pain. Yet even in that state, he didn't just get them the practical things they needed; he got things that were purely for her so she might put her hands to work and free her mind for a time.

Things have been terrible between them, a thing she's not helped with her behavior, and still he thinks on her. Still he makes space for her in his heart. Tears crowd her eyes again as she stands, one hand staying on Wolfe's shoulder so his arm can slip around her waist at this different angle. A small, thin smile spreads across her face as she holds herself and her arm open to him, offering a warm embrace where he can be encompassed by both of them if he chooses it.

"I owe you an apology for what you saw earlier, but..." Dreams, it's hard to speak when she's so breathless with relief and joy. "Thank you, Chris. Thank you for the supplies, the temple, the space to talk, the space to be alone, for everything." Her smile warms as a few tears roll down her cheeks. "For you and being here with us."

For letting me stay.

They both look at him so softly, and it's too much like barbs when he feels like the chill on his skin is a thin barrier. There's a part of him that says he shouldn't, that he should at least clean up first to try and scrape himself more together...but he takes a deep breath and lets it go. How many times was he going to have to reteach himself that he didn't need to hold so tightly in front of them? One more time, it seems.

"You're going to get dirty." He offers it as his only defense, but it's feeble, and he says it as he steps into their embrace anyway. An arm wraps around each of them, yet he buries his face against neither, his eyes vaguely on the bag on the table as errant thoughts replace useful responses. He should have taken his scythe off his back. His feet and arms were going to hurt in a little while. Possibly his back. Would Conners look at his other self and think he looks younger than he had a moment before? Would they assume an odd ghost? A curse on the land from the death lingering there? Maybe they should go to Bastila next instead of Ilnivur and take some time laying low in a city that wouldn't care as much.

What finally comes out is: "They were clearing bodies. The fires had stopped, at least, but it was a mess. I don't know why I thought there'd be some major difference between last night and today...even magic can only do so much."

He turns his face and kisses the side of Amelia's head. "We need to talk...and I'm still frustrated and hurt...but you will always have the space and things you need. I'm sorry if I made you doubt that. I'm sorry if either of you doubted it...I'm...I'll be better. Magic can't fix everything for people in a day either, I guess."

"I'm sorry, Love," comes out of Wolfe softly, not meant as acceptance of blame but as sympathy. Empathy. He remembers looking down the mountain at the smoldering ruins of Kirkwall, wondering who had survived and who he was leaving behind to be buried.

"We'll all be better to each other, if not ourselves," He says, sliding a hand to the small of each of their backs lightly. He does nothing further, not wanting to encroach on whatever contact Chris does not want right now. "So there are a few things to talk about, but after our battle tomorrow, or at least after you've had a hot bath if you want to talk tonight. Its up to you."

He doesn't know if Chris will want to get into it so he can train his thoughts away from what he'd just seen or if he wants to sit with it awhile, but Wolfe at least will adjust to either. "I can start getting dinner ready so you don't have to worry on it. Jon is still in the study, but we talked for some time as well."

Practiced a lot of Common too, but the full sentence Wolfe had learned in particular to say to Chris seems inappropriate given where their cleric was. Or it could be welcome, Wolfe isn't sure what he'd want to hear right now, but if it were him...

"Welcome back to our home," Wolfe says in Faerûn's Common, a bit falteringly in pronunciation but the sentiment is there.

"I understand, and we'll talk when you're ready, as Wolfe said. I'm here and I have no intention of going or being elsewhere." Not unless they send her away. It's still a possibility - it will always be a possibility - but she will still want to be here. Always.

She brushes her hand down to the center of their mage's back, hesitating when he speaks words of welcome in a tongue she hasn't heard or spoken since the days the translator failed in Duplicity. Her smile brightens as she leans over to kiss the top of Wolfe's head in praise, but she says nothing. The words aren't meant for her; Chris will get the honor of speaking to them.

In the study, Jon has his ear pressed to the door, listening in. He knows he shouldn't, but curiosity is a terrible thing. Chris' abrupt arrival back at the temple had pinged at his senses and roused him from his efforts to write people's names in common. More uniformly this time and absent the mania that had driven him last night. The script in his notebook isn't particularly impressive, but he hopes it's understandable.

Upon hearing his name, he give it a count of fifteen before opening the door, only to hear Wolfe's greeting. For the first time in their acquaintance, since the mage and cleric had got together, Jon feels a pang of jealousy. He had wanted to impress Chris first. He's been practicing longer. He'd been helping Wolfe.

Jon tries to master that and not point out the errors he recognizes. It ends up with him frowning slightly at Wolfe before turning his attention to Chris and taking in the state of him.

He pulls back when Wolfe speaks of dinner, washing up, and conversations. Practical things. There were quite a few of the latter to do, but some could certainly wait until after tomorrow.

He’s in the middle of taking Death’s Door off his back when Wolfe’s words register in their faltering Faerûn.

A smile grows across Chris’ lips as he looks back up to his mage.

“Thank you.” He responds in kind. “You studied for that? I’m proud of you.”

Movement from the corner of his vision pulls Chris’ attention and green eyes sweep assessingly over his Archivist before flicking back to Wolfe. He’ll address that flicker of metaphoric green in a bit.

He waves Jon closer regardless. “There’s a children’s book in the bag, creatures instead of gods, but it’s real.”

Edited 2025-11-12 00:14 (UTC)

Wolfe hears sound of the door opening somewhere behind him but doesn't turn, expecting it's Jon emerging at feeling Chris return. He's a little jealous of that ability, honestly. He knows he'd feel better if he knew where his family was all the time, but that envy is easily pushed aside by being praised for his effort. Still, he's proud, not stuck up.

"I did, with Jon's help of course. Left to my own devices I probably would have gotten distracted and had half the things in the library read to only two pages in." The children's book should help, though. Its a better place to start than jumping around a dictionary, anyway.

Quieting as he gets to his feet so Chris can talk with Jon, Wolfe puts his arm back around Amelia's shoulders. He needs to get started cooking and she can't really help with much of that, but there is the bag to take stock of. "I don't mind if you all want to disappear off to talk, but I would appreciate a little company while I'm in the kitchen. Maybe you could take account of the goods Chris brought back? We should probably know exactly what and how much we have."

And if the clothes are going to fit.

Its morbid, and he certainly doesn't mean to be flippant about a poor soul who had been saving this money never to see their goal. If they do ever get a horse, he'll insist they call it Sinaed in gratitude. Maybe they should hold some kind of funeral, if Chris hasn't already.

No wonder the Matron is sending them to tend to the zombies, she's probably very busy right now.

"I can keep you company, love. I'd like to see the fabric and thread Chris brought back for me." The clothes she appreciates, but doesn't care much about. She should fit in well enough with her leathers and linens until she can buy something from a tailor. She nods to Chris and Jon, picking up the bag after removing the book from it, then follows Wolfe to the kitchen.

Her hands aren't any use around food, but that frees her up to spread everything out on a small prep table. The clothes will likely fit with a little adjustment, something she could easily do this evening once they've all settled in after dinner while two of their group are studying. There's no shirt that will fit Wolfe's arms without more fabric, thread, and a pair of scissors, but he should have a pair of trousers that fit before the night is done.

"All of my stitching on these is going to be noticeable," she jokes as she pulls out the bobbins of thread. "Someone clearly had grand designs for a pattern or colorful clothes to mend, but that's not what we've got. I hope you don't mind your new pants having bright blue threads in addition to the browns they started with."

Wolfe saying he helped mollifies Jon enough that he stops frowning outright. He goes to fetch the book, looking over the cover before flipping through. It's much simpler than what they've been looking at apart from the book of rhymes he'd found, which is probably a good thing. It does make him feel a bit childish to have to rely on these sorts of things to get started, though. It shouldn't, but what if the people they meet see two grown men reading things meant for children?

Then again, how educated is the common man? Jon's not entirely sure given the 'anachronistic' aspects of Faerun he's seen and heard about. People might be far more literate than those on Earth during this sort of time period.

"I'll take a look at this in a moment. I need a cigarette." Which means he'll need his lighter. "Chris, could you help me with the lighter outside once you clean up? We might as well check it before the rest of the day is out." And again, it's somewhat odd that he does remember he needs to do that. Jon sets the thought aside. He doesn't need to amp up his own paranoia on top of the other new and unpleasant emotions before he's going to ask after Chris.

Chris nods to Amelia and Wolfe, a little grateful the conversation didn’t need to happen now. Maybe they could wait until after the Shadowfell. None of what he needed to talk about would change how he’d act or handle their task ahead.

Jon brings up the lighter again and Chris is torn between relief his partner still remembers it and embarrassment Chris had forgotten twice now. His shower could wait to at least do as he’d promised.

“Yes, of course. Sorry. Let’s do it now, unless the soot bothers you.” Of course, he’s already reaching for the lighter and turning to head outside so it was mostly rhetorical.

"As long as I'm clothed, it'll be perfect," Wolfe grins back at Amelia wryly. He's been randomly naked a few too many times today for his comfort, even given it's not been sexual at all. "Besides, plenty of people make due with what they have. I'm not stranger to it. You remember I darned all my own socks in Duplicity."

Stubbornly too, when sometimes the yarn to repair them was more expensive than the socks themselves.

"I do wish we had some vegetables to go in here. I wonder if there's any we could forage..." He glances at the door as Chris and Jon disappear through it, Patience following right after as a watchful shadow, turning Wolfe's look soft in recognition of his mabari acting caretaker for the one of their family she can tell is most uneasy. Its mostly been Amelia today, but since Chris returned, he expects the dog to stick to him like glue at least for a couple of hours. Woe be unto Chris if he tries to shoo her away. At least she won't be intrusive. She's good about that.

Cookie, on the other hand, starts nosing for morsels as soon as he gets the food out for cooking. Wolfe laughs at her fondly. "You mangy beast, you'll wait like the rest of us!"

"And mine too, as I recall, whenever we lived together." Finding a sock with a bit of fresh yarn in the heel when selecting a pair never failed to bring a smile to her face. Or tears to her eyes when he was gone. The sobering thought has her smile fading a little, though she keeps the thought itself in. If she starts down that road tonight, she's going to fail them tomorrow when her heart is torn between the ache and protecting those she still has.

The spare bit of soft beige linen almost makes her weep, though. Chris got this and the hoop just for her. She can make something new and beautiful again for the first time since Wolfe was taken. She doesn't even know where to begin and that has nothing to do with the colors of yarn available to her.

"Cookie please. The more you bother him the slower he'll be on purpose. Come sit with me instead." To make her invitation more appealing, she retrieves a chair from the main table and pulls it up at the edge of the little kitchen. As she settles, she sets the fabric and hoop in her lap, then retrieves the little box to start counting the coins out.

"You know," she begins softly, "if we have the coin to spare after clothes, spices, and books, I'd like to get proper thread and needles. I'll have new clothes to embroider and I'll need to find a new pattern that signifies us, all of us, as we are now." Not only her leaves and not a crest that no longer belongs to Chris but something more, something for their new family. It's going to take time to figure out what it should be, but she wants to do this. They belong together now, and she wants her subtle work on their clothing and handkerchiefs to show that.

Well... that works, too. The Archivist follows his boyfriend outside, surprised by the eagerness. Maybe it's so Jon isn't fiddling with a potentially cursed object while he's cleaning up. Jon steps outside, closing the door as he goes, and finds himself completely naked.

"Good Lord!" The cold is bracing, and his immediate instinct to run back inside wars with his embarrassment about forgetting about the clothes and knowing Wolfe and Amelia will be right there to witness his shame.

He stands frozen on the steps of the temple as the cigarettes he'd shoved in his pocket tumble to the ground. The only mercy here is that no one will be able to see the lingerie he'd been wearing.

"Chris!" The name is practically a hiss as Jon struggles with making a choice on what to do. But then- "Get me some bloody clothes. Christ, this is stupid!"

If he'd been a little less flustered, maybe he would have remembered to warn Jon about the clothes and have him avoid a repeat of his and Wolfe's performances earlier. Alas, he's not, and his poor boyfriend is subjected to the early evening cold of the North-Eastern Heartlands. He had told Jon a couple of times that their proximity to the High Ice, barely a few weeks North, made the nights beyond chilly in the Moonsea. Now he had first-hand experience.

He doesn't bother hiding his amusement as he pauses long enough to kiss the top of Jon's head. "Ah, and here I was enjoying the impromptu view. One moment."

He does hurry back inside to fetch one of the oversized sweaters from one of their packs and a pair of Jon's pants with only a spared glance of amusement to the other two, if they look over to him at all.

Then he's back at Jon's side to help him into both. "I'm half convinced this thing doesn't want me to look at it and is causing strife to come up every time I intend to do so." But not for much longer.

As soon as Jon's decent once more, Chris turns his attention to the lighter and starts with a simple Detect Magic spell. His eyes turn silver and look over the web pattern, faint lines of failing magic tracing along it in the same patterns. In fact, they were almost...coiling? Like the curling legs of a dying spider clinging to the lighter.

"Abjuration, but more for itself than you...at least so far as my magic can categorize the powers of the Fears. Divination as well...likely to track you. Your Web's got some Eye in it...but they're both fading. It's all weakened and falling apart."

"You should make one up, though honestly we're not nobility, at least not anymore so we can-" Chris comes trotting back inside and grabs a sweater and some of Jon's pants. They lock eyes in twin bemused expressions, but Wolfe doesn't say anything as Chris goes to make sure Jon isn't too scandalized or frozen. Patience' snoot is visible briefly through the open door but she remains outside with Jon.

"Glad to see I'm not the only forgetful person here today," he laughs a little, turning back to the food. "But anyway. What would we use the symbols for? Maybe if we start adventuring we could be a little band. I suppose we'd need a name, then."

"It's not meant to identify us to others like that," she sighs. Chris' quick entrance and exit to rummage clothes for Jon gives her a moment to breathe through the urge to tell Wolfe to forget it and that it doesn't actually matter. It does matter, if only to her, for reasons she hates having to pull at for fear it'll cause the whole of her to untangle when they can't afford that to happen. There's a chance he'll still wave it off and tell her passingly to do as she pleases, but if he's going to play this off at all he needs to understand why she cares.

"It's for us." Hang the name for their 'adventuring band'. She doesn't care right now. "It's to tie us together. When I was--" Hold it. Hold yourself. Don't pull too hard on this. A long, shaking breath in and then back out.

"The Family in Ragneux has a crest to mark their work and their documents, but do you know what the people in that family do with it? They mark themselves with it to tie themselves to the others, to prove their care for one another. Not all of them do for different reasons, but it's not meant for anyone else outside of the Family either. They show their commitment to those they've chosen. Just as I show my commitment to you and Chris by weaving what we thought was ours together in my designs."

She wipes at her eyes and then the coins start clinking against table as she counts them out. "That's why it matters to me. I want you all to always know that I'm with you and that you're my priority." If she has to do this only for herself because the others act the way Wolfe does, so be it. They can't stop her.

"We have the equivalent of nine gold and seven silver here. It's a good start for our needs."

Jon is covering himself for modesty, such as it may be, and glares into the middle distance as Chris kisses his head and moves inside. The cleric is blessedly quick, though, and soon enough, Jon is ensconced in a warm sweater... if still barefoot. He fetches his cigarettes while Chris does his assessment. The change in his eyes is a little worrying, but he knows what it is, and it's also interesting to watch.

"It's not so much... one has the other in it as it's a spectrum." Jon takes the lighter back to look it over. "The Eye and the Web are close to one another in that sense, though. Whereas the Eye and the Slaughter tend to have less overlap. I suppose it's good it's falling apart, but I... knowing I've had it all this time. It's one of the only things I have left that I actually arrived with in Duplicity." Or that the Duplicity creature created with him? Unclear, but he's choosing to read it his own way.

"I wonder if- I mean, the tape recorders are going to stop, as well, aren't they? You don't have anything like them in Faerun, and they're connected to my world." To the power he's going to lose soon. Again, there's an impulse to confess to Chris about what really happened with Amelia, but Jon holds back on it. He still needs to talk to her so they're on the same page, either bound to both keep the secret, or agreed it would be best to deal with the fallout from Wolfe and Chris sooner rather than later.

"In any case, thank you. For looking at it." Jon uses it to light up one of his cigarettes and takes a long drag, eyes closing and sigh coming out maybe a little more pleasured than it should. But god, he'd needed this. "Are you feeling less... inclined to fly off? Sorry about starting all that. I didn't actually intend to kick a beehive."

Chris feels a press at his leg and looks down to see Patience, a slim aura of magic surrounds her as well, but innate and as strong as anything native to this plane. At least she wasn't fading or losing her abilities like some of them. He spares her a scratch behind the ears once his hands are freed from the lighter with its owner's retrieval.

He looks back up at Jon for his question, and Chris waves a hand dismissively as his eyes return to their normal color. It wasn't your fault. The conversation itself wasn't...it's worth having. I didn't take well to three other people weighing in on how I should or shouldn't handle my own ghosts without talking to me, so much as telling me. Everyone acted like I was ready to walk out this door and contact Bane when all I was talking about was the very last option of a rather long and more probable list. You weren't the one who annoyed me the most...though I'm not sure still how I feel about your little nod to me. You're practical, but I know you feel about Bane how I feel about Elias."

He crosses his arms as Patience settles by the door again. "We're a protective lot, but protectiveness can reach a ridiculous level if not checked now and again."

That's a lot of gold, but Wolfe doesn't give voice to his mixed feelings about that, practicality warring with sentiment. Instead he stops what he's doing and turns to look at Amelia, giving her his full undivided attention.

There's a lot to untangle in her phrasing, separating her from her House and her family symbology, saying what she thought was theirs instead of simply what was. Wolfe reaches over to take her hand, a worried crease between his eyebrows, trying to figure out how to respond. He doesn't disagree, on some level. He can't use the Amell crest any longer, and it's more a symbol of a past life than the present one. Its the same for Chris too, a sense of identity that he has to shed and figure out who he is now. Who they are now.

That thought is was sparks realization dawning to Wolfe about how Amelia is trying to work through things. She no longer has her old self - never did, from a certain point of view - but instead of continuing to wallow she's trying to build that new sense of self with the rest of them integral to it.

Wolfe smiles with gentle pride and squeezes her hand. "I would be honored to take on a new symbol of your design, Love."

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cw: refrence to death via smoke inhalation, child death, stealing from the dead

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cw: mention of child death, suffocation