ACHER+ALEX; two grumps

[socarnivorously]

Who: Acher & Alexander
When: Friday, July 8th
Where: Enghelab, Pakerion
Before/After: --
Warnings: --


Acher frequented Enghelab, now. Aerveas's capital, thanks to being relatively untouched by all of the merges, was far more intact than what was left of Bastan. Bastan was a good center to send patrols out from, but it was a ghost of the city that Acher once called home. If he wanted anything at the market, Enghelab was the place of choice, especially with the inherent tensions between Safta and Pakerion.

Could it still be called Pakerion? Acher wondered. Perhaps the Pakeri Empire was a better name for the massive, continent-spanning state that King Aerveas created.

The former paladin was now walking through Enghelab's marketplace. He had been gathering new weaponry and armor ever since he became a berserker. He looked the part, now; instead of the old, crimson-dyed plate armor that was notable only for its plainness that he wore during the rescue operation, he had the spiked plate of a berserker on. It was still obviously Acher, though: his hair was cut short, in the Everean style, and his height and build were hard to mistake.

At the moment, he was standing at one of the armor vendors in the market, looking over a pair of bracers while a merchant watched him carefully. He still spoke with an Everean accent, after all.

From above, the blade of a glaive came down to hover an inch from his shoulder and possibly less from his neck. After a second, it was gone, returning to Alex's side in one swift motion.

"Acher!" he said, smiling cheerfully. "It's been too long."

Alex was thrumming with energy, still riding the high that came after a satisfying hunt. Having caught something at the beginning of the week, it wasn't food he had been hunting. League business, minor, and not at all related to Aerveas' conflict. They didn't quite trust him for that, yet.

Acher tensed when the glaive came down over his shoulder. He turned his head, and it was gone, and he saw Alex there. The look of irritation was gone in an instant; it was someone that was, if not quite a friend, a comrade in arms. Men who worked against their players had a bond, he thought.

"Alex!" he echoed. "It has. And far sunnier circumstances, this time." He thrust a hand out for him to shake. "Good to see you here. I was looking for new armor." He put the bracers down behind him. "I am a berserker now. As you know."

"So I noticed," he said, taking the hand and shaking it firmly before releasing. He glanced at the armorer's wares before continuing, smile going crooked. "A shame you're not welcomed in the Undertow."

Acher smirked at that. "The look on the Ahura's face, when he was forced to grant me power, was worth that. I think he thought the monster I fought was not supposed to be beaten." He shrugged his shoulders. "A few berserkers sided with the king, besides. Enough for the armorers to make money off us."

Even if they were not getting the best of the available armor.

He hummed thoughtfully, not really all that thoughtful. "I have some news for you. Good news, I think."

"News?" Acher repeated. "What sort?"

"About your..." He lifted his hands and fanned them out like a rainbow. "Player," he finished, smiling wickedly at him.

Because why the hell not? It was long enough.

"My player," Acher repeated. He had written off any chance of speaking to her further; the dragons going on strike meant that he had little way of ever communicating with her. It was a waiting game, and his rage was best stored, sat on, and allowed to fester. The day would come when he could release it.

But maybe Alex had found a way to speak with her. Perhaps he had word of her; maybe Omid had jailed her or something of the sort. That would be welcome news, as long as she had not died.

"What of her?"

His hands dropped to his side. "She's here."

"Here--" Acher's eyes widened, but he kept his excitement at the idea muted. "In Zenderael?"

"In Safta, actually. Three guesses to what she's done."

"Hid in fear," he said, "if she knows what's good for her."

"Celebrated the solstice. Made no effort to conceal herself at all!" He shrugged. "She was really drunk."

Acher laughed. He was surprised by that. He never thought he could laugh at the woman who so thoroughly ruined his life; the woman who made his entire existence, his entire belief system rooted on a falsehood.

"I knew she was a fool, but I never imagined that she could be that much one!" he finally said. He shook his head. "What sort of imbecile does that? How deep does her presumption run? To think she could come here in the flesh and enjoy our world? To think she could come here, drink our spirits, eat our food, and dance with our people? She used our world for entertainment and thinks to continue it!"

He laughed, but it was a harsh laughter now.

"Did she at least keep herself alive for me?" he asked. "Or did she take even that from me?" He frowned. She was in Safta -- where it would be hard to reach her without incident.

Damn, that was some serious loathing right there. Alex understood all too well, though. The audacity of these players was astounding. He wondered, sometimes, if all of them were like that or if he had just the rotten luck to know of several.

"Well, if she was smart enough to throw herself into the fire..." He folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head to the side. "Long, red hair. Green eyes." That was no longer true, but Lera hadn't been a spellsword when Alex met her. "About an inch or two shorter than me. She even wears the clothes like she's always belonged."

"Disgusting." Acher grumbled, before he shook his head. "Taller than I expected, though. How old did she look to be? I assumed young." Younger than him, to be certain; Acher was into his thirties. "Did you identify yourself to her? Ah, I wish I could have seen that for myself."

Except that he would have stopped it, when he tried to kill her.

"She recognized me." Of course... Alex turned his eyes onto the armor on the table, then idly picked up the bracers Acher had set down to examine for himself. "Her twenties, I'd wager. She's got some fight to her. I challenged her to a drinking contest..."

"Some fight to her," Acher repeated. "Earth's people are soft. Weak. I doubt that her prowess could match her spirit." He smirked, then laughed. "I doubt she won against you. I've come to suspect that our players made us to address what they wished they could be--harder, stronger." He met a few refugees in what little remained of Bastan; they had not left a positive impression upon him. "And that meant making our lives hard, to ignore their own weaknesses. Living vicariously through us, making us what they never had the courage to be."

He didn't disagree, but the notion that they had done it to live vicariously-- with their strengths, and not their weaknesses? Or their goals? He didn't understand. There was little in his history that he could expect anyone to want to live through.

He was quiet for a moment, turning the bracer in his hands. Why?

Why had Jordan given him that specific past? Why had she designed him the way she did? He had strengths, but a plethora of weaknesses, too. Was it fun? It was, because they were a game to them. But he didn't understand.

"You are a man, she is a woman. You are dark of hair, she is light. You are hard, she is soft." He set the bracers down and gave a half-hearted shrug as he looked at Acher. "Perhaps. I spoke to mine, once, when they still could control us. She controlled someone else. That's all I know of her."

"Yes," he agreed. It made a certain amount of sense -- and yet something bothered him. She was still able to make someone like him; someone who could be vicious, merciless, and bloodthirsty. Something of that had to be inside of her; it had to be more than playing pretend, like a child's game. She was an adult.

He stopped himself there. He could not afford such doubts. His course was set, now; it had been set the moment that he turned on Everea. If someone was going to force the world the change, he could allow no doubts into his mind. The bloody hand of history could ill afford a weak grasp.

"What did your player seem like, when you spoke with her?" Acher asked. A frown crossed his face, along with a thought. "Did you learn her name? Anything else of her?"

His eyes flicked at the armorer. "Jordan," he said flippantly. The same name he had used in the berserker tournament. "Little else."

That she was not fond of people, he thought, but kept that to himself.

"A common name," Acher answered. He frowned at that; he had written to one Jordan, then spoken with a couple of individuals with that name. There was no indication that she was on Zenderael. "I take it you plan to kill her, as well?"

"Aaah, well..." He ran his fingers through his hair, then paused. That was a tooth in it. "Eventually," he said, curling his fingers around the tooth, concealing it from view as he removed it.

The removal of the tooth did not draw Acher's attention. He nodded at that. "If only that alone could correct things," he said. He grunted, softly. "No matter. Thank you for that information. I wish I had some for you."

Some that he could share. Aerveas's new title was not something he felt free to divulge. "It sounds that I will need to listen and find a reason to venture to Safta."

"Patience is a virtue," he said, smiling crookedly again. "You might have a better chance of luring her away from the Nenakret than entering it, what with this curfew business they're up to."

Alex clapped Acher on the arm. "Good-bye, then, and good luck."

"A fine idea," Acher said. He would have to consider that. This was too good to pass up on.

He returned the motion and nodded. Acher grinned at Alex when he did, bringing his hand back down to his side. "I have a command in Aerveas's military, now," he said. "If you ever need employment, come find me here or in Bastan. I could use some men with good heads on their shoulders."

He barked out a laugh. "I'll endeavor to keep it there," he said, turning to step back into the street.

Work for Aerveas! Ah, he probably would in time, indirectly.