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Things have been… hectic, lately. A brand of chaos not entirely uncommon in Ravnica, but somehow much more tense, like something dark brews on the horizon. The Guilds fight, yes, but this is a cold war and not the usual rising hostility that is (typically) cut down before it can grow too large by a Guildmaster, or the Guildpact himself. But it's been a very long time since the embodiment of Law has been seen in public, an unusual amount of silence even for the reclusive young man. Mistress Teysa tells me that it's worrisome, and I have no reason to disbelieve her.
Our new Guildmaster is an interesting one. She is very unlike others within our Guild, and she has been working to reduce the amount of debt carried by the dead and living both; a boon and a curse, for whilst my fellows were often harsh to their debtors, it's their payments that often keep our works (and those of Ravnica as a whole) running. She'll figure it out. My job has been made significantly easier in some ways thanks to her, at least, what with Mistress Teysa being free to conduct most of her own business now.
But still I must be dutiful. My place is at her side, her assistant in this turbulent time. I carry messages and take notes, meet delegates and schedule rendezvous between the Guilds.
So this is where I find myself now, seated across from a man representing the Izzet in a cramped café in an area controlled by the Guild of Engineers. He's working with us to try and figure out some way to replicate our missing Guildpact, and something seems to be eating at him. It's obvious on his face, the way his thick brows bunch together in the middle and his mouth pulls into a frown whenever he thinks nobody is looking. When he's aware my eyes are on him, he wears an easy smile on his face, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
He's tall and lean, with broad shoulders only accentuated by the enormous amount of puzzling Izzet gear stacked on his arms and back, and his dark hair spikes backwards in a way that I can't tell if its deliberate or just naturally that way thanks to years of working with electricity. He looks like he hasn't shaved in a few days, and there are bags under his eyes; signs of overwork and stress.
His name is Ral Zarek, and he was the Izzet representative some years back for that baffling Maze, and current acting Guildmaster. He's a notorious enough figure for me to know his name without being formally introduced, and I've attended a few meetings with him.and Mistress Teysa to be aware of his mannerisms, though this is our first solo rendezvous. I watch him chat up the elf serving our drinks, and though the youth easily flusters under his attention, I can tell his heart isn't in it. Something is definitely distracting him.
I smooth the scroll in front of me down on the table, careful not to smudge the handwriting. I had been gathering what I could of the minutes of previous Guildmeets, going over them for any snippet for a ruling or potential new law the Guildpact had mentioned, and that’s part of why Zarek was here; as the Izzet representative, he had been present for most of these meetings. I clear my throat, and he looks away from the retreating waiter and back at me with wide eyes. They’re grey, I notice.
“We should go over these. Mister Beleren was very talkative this meeting, I notice,” I say, and his brows fold in on themselves. Interesting.
“Yeah, that’s rare,” he mumbles in return, picking up his cup of coffee by the rim. I scratch my pen on another sheet of paper absently, watching him.
“But maybe they can wait. You look tense. Is something bothering you?” I say, keeping my tone soft and level. Both his eyebrows go up for a moment; they’re very adept at indicating his mood, I find.
“Well, let’s see. The Guilds are all slowly trying to kill each other, I have no idea where the Guildpact is, and I have to fill the shoes of a dragon older than the Guilds themselves, what could possibly be making me tense,” he snaps, but I can see the regret in his eyes. He didn’t mean to be so hostile; he’s hurting. It’s very obvious now.
"It's something else," I reply, keeping my voice calm to show him I'm not upset by or scared of his outburst. He sighs and takes a long drink from the mug, looking me over again.
"It's not super important. I need to be focusing on this stuff…" he trails off, taking another long drink.
"In any case, it's negatively impacting your performance. We all need to be on top of our game," I say, and he makes a noise that is probably supposed to be a humourless laugh.
"Isn't that an Orzhov thing to say, huh? No offence."
I shake my head a little, smiling. He doesn't think before he speaks, which is a bit charming coming from him. It shows how fast he can think on his feet. He takes a third drink of his coffee and finishes the whole thing.
"I think it's something you would be familiar with, too. All parts of the machine working in concert, for maximum efficiency. If one part is lagging, the machine suffers."
He smiles again, but this one feels more genuine. He sets his mug down, halfway on top of my parchment, but I nudge it away gently without him noticing. My own tea next to me steams merrily, out of the way of my elbow. I pick it up and swirl it slightly, making the cream bloom like a cloud in the amber liquid.
“I guess that makes sense,” he says, shifting how he sits in his chair. Can’t keep still. I wonder if it’s the coffee or just how he normally is. He sounds a bit more perky at least, and I notice he’s finally trying to make eye contact. My gaze meets his and he seems… surprised? Just for a moment. Interesting.
“Here, I’ll order some tea for you. This café carries a blend I like, it’s good for stress, my treat,” I say, flagging down the waiter again. I order a cup of hawthorne and chamomile while Zarek watches me with an odd look on his face, like he wasn’t expecting such generosity as a cup of tea.
We go over the notes a little while we wait for it to arrive, and he has a surprising amount of insight into how the Guildpact’s mind works. I take notes as he clarifies points and explains what had happened during the meeting, his voice getting more open and more boisterous as he continues. Overall, it’s productive even if we haven’t gone over more than a third of the document yet. He quiets down once the drink arrives, looking at the steaming cup as if he’s afraid it’ll bite him.
“It’s good, I promise,” I say softly, nudging the little jar of honey on the table toward him. He adds two enormous spoonfuls to the cup (much more than the dab I use) and stirs, having almost depleted the jar.
“I don’t really drink tea,” he mumbles, but he brings it to his lips once it’s cooled enough. Judging by the way his eyebrows lift, he likes it. It’ll be good for him, I figure. He drinks most of it just as fast as he did his coffee, then sets the cup down, yet again on my notes. I poke it out of the way, and he notices this time, muttering an apology.
“It’s alright,” I reassure him, reaching out to gently touch his wrist. A bolt move, but I get the feeling it’ll get results. I’m right, as he goes still at my touch, looking down at my hand like he’s never been touched like this in his life.
His fingers tap the empty mug with a staccato rhythm, eventually resolving itself into a pattern of sorts, as he regards my person. I can tell he’s deciding if he can trust me with his secrets, and I do my best to appear trustworthy; lean in slightly, keep my eyes wide and soft, expression neutral. He sighs deeply and his shoulders droop, and I know I’m in.
“...I just… Krokt, he’s been gone so long,” he says softly, not elaborating on who ‘he’ could be, though from the context it’s obvious. “I thought I could trust him finally, but then he just… vanishes, with that… that woman. He told me about her.”
He sounds bitter, so much said in just the tone and inflection of his words. He doesn’t like this woman, and he feels betrayed, hurt. Something was between him and the Guildpact, the rumours were correct. It’s clear in those storm-grey eyes.
“So, you two were close…?” I lead.
He sighs again.
“Yeah, you could say that. Not anymore, though. It’s been too long, and if he thinks I’m gonna wait for him to get back…” He trails off, his tone taking on an edge of an emotion halfway between anger and sorrow. He’s very good at saying a lot with so little, even if he doesn’t know it.
“That’s unfortunate,” I offer, watching his face for a sign if that’s what he needs to hear to not. When he nods, expression softening, I continue. “So, were the rumours true, then?”
He leans back slightly, eyes widening slightly, but it seems to be surprise rather than offence. He takes his hand off his mug and taps it on the table instead, eyes flicking to each side as if looking to make sure nobody is listening in. When he’s satisfied, he leans back in again, expression melancholy.
“There were rumours about us…?”
“Yes. You hear a lot in my line of work, even if I think it’s distasteful to gossip like that.”
That seems to make him feel better, and he relaxes a hair, nodding his head. That must be what’s got him so stressed, then; he and the Guildpact had been… intimate, but now the young man had gone, abandoning both his duty and his lover. And Zarek wasn’t eager to continue said relationship after being burned. His heart was broken, now he needs support, and nobody is really equipped to give it right now.
Well, nearly nobody. Perhaps I can be of assistance.
I carefully gather up my notes and scroll and tuck them into the carrying case, and my pens soon follow suit into their sturdy mahogany case, which rests in my satchel. Zarek (should I call him Ral?) watches with some confusion, eyebrows inching closer and closer together as I pull out two gold coins and set them gently on the table to pay for our drinks; a bit more than required, but I’m trying to make an impression.
“Let’s take these notes somewhere more private. Some of this is sensitive Guild business, you see,” I say to him before he can ask. He just nods in reply, pushing back his chair to get to his feet and getting the waiter’s attention to show we made our payment. It’s charming how much respect he seems to have for service workers; a sign of a good personality.
I snap my fingers in the air and click my tongue, which summons my gargoyle from the rooftop it had been resting on, narrow stone wings whistling through the air as it lands in the street next to us. It keens, low and hollow like the wind through stonework, and I can tell Ral finds it a bit unsettling. Ah well, nobody’s perfect. I carefully climb into the saddle, securing my boots to the straps, and motion for him to climb on, too. His eyebrows fly up, and he taps his chest as if incredulous that I’m asking him to join me.
“Come on, it doesn’t bite,” I encourage, and he reluctantly climbs on as well. He seems unsure what to do with his hands, eventually settling for resting one on the scroll case and the other reaching just past my waist and clinging to the saddle. I can feel how warm his body is behind me, but he’s trying to avoid brushing too close, probably assuming I would be adverse to it.
Once he’s stopped shifting around to get comfortable, I squeeze my legs slightly and click to urge the gargoyle into the air. It whips its wings out and takes flight, a bit of a jerky motion to those unused to it, and I can feel Ral’s body tense slightly as he holds onto the scroll case a bit tighter. The gargoyle is a quick flyer, knowing just how to get to my apartments the quickest from any given place in the district, so it’s not terribly long at all until its claws are digging into the stone of the roof landing of my apartment building. There are several grooves from previous landings in the roof, but such is the reality of having a mount, I suppose.
He dismounts quickly, standing on the roof and watching as I unstrap my boots from the saddle, his expression unsure. He’s very likely used to flight, but on the back of a (technically) living creature is probably a different story. When I slide off the gargoyle, it wanders over to its corner to rest, stony body fitting in with the masonry quite well.
“Where are we?” he inquires softly, but I can tell by the pinkish cast of his face he has a good idea.
“My apartments,” I say simply, indicating the door that leads inside. I unlock it with one of the keys from my belt and let us both in, the landing small and narrow, but well-built. He follows behind me, quieter than I’m sure is usual.
My apartments themselves are smaller than many of my Guildmates would like, but it suits me just fine; they’re just as good looking as any of the expansive manses belonging to an oligarch or pontiff. I make damn sure of that, since a properly decorated and well-kept home is a sign of contentment in life. It seems to be more impressive than what Ral is used to, as well, as I catch him examining the gold-leafed moulding out of the corner of my eye. I let him wander, taking my time to set up the scrolls and notes and pens on the sitting room table.
By the time I’m finished, he’s taken in much of the room, currently standing in front of a portrait of me as a child with my parents. It’s quite well-done if I say so myself, you could hardly tell they were spirits at first glance. But Orzhov artists love their tells, and I can see by his face that he’s noticed. He turns to face me but doesn’t say anything about it, instead directing his attention to the scrolls. I note he’s frowning at them.
“Yes?” I lead.
“You didn’t just bring me here about the minutes, did you?” He’s a sharp one.
“Ah, you caught me,” I say, holding up my hands in a slightly-exaggerated shrug. I put on a soft, friendly smile to put him at ease. “I thought you’d be more comfortable talking in my personal quarters. I want to get to the bottom of this.”
He sighs and just drops his body into one of the soft chairs set next to the table, sinking right into it. He stays still and quiet for a moment, as if appreciating the comfort of good furniture, but he soon turns to me, hand resting on his forehead. I sit in the chair next to him, gingerly adjusting my tunic.
“You’re really worried about me, huh?” he says softly. His tone is interesting, like he’s trying to avoid getting his hopes up.
“Like I said, all the parts of the machine working in concert. We need you at your best. Did the tea help?” I say simply, folding my hands in my lap.
I can feel his eyes on me, searching for some kind of tell, but he’s better with machines and wires than he is with people, that’s obvious. I do offer him up a smile, though, and he leans back deeper into the upholstery.
“It did,” he says, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Looks like he’s finally getting comfortable, letting himself be a little vulnerable around me. I have that effect on people. His posture is still tense, though, and it gives me an idea.
“Here,” I say, getting to my feet. He watches with a measure of surprise, lifting his head out of his hand and watching as I round the table to end up behind him. He makes a soft noise as I unhook some of his gear and prompt him to set it aside, which he does. I stretch my fingers, then immediately begin working them into his back. He groans, a deep rumbling noise that I find far more pleasing than is proper.
“Ohh, that’s nice…” he mutters, leaning forward to let me work.
“You have more knots than Vitu-Ghazi,” I say mostly to myself, but I know he’s caught it by his laugh; a genuine, amused laugh. Good. I keep working his tense muscles, from his back and shoulders to his neck, working free each knot of muscle. I can tell he hasn’t been sleeping in an appropriate location or working with proper posture by how they’re distributed and how stiff he is, but I resist my urge to lecture him about it.
Eventually, I step back, shaking my hands out slightly. It’s not perfect, but he’s visibly more relaxed, and he’s smiling once more. He doesn’t move to put his gear back on, instead tilting his head back over the back of the chair so he can look up at me as I stand behind him. I indulge in the little urge to run a hand through his black-and-white hair, and his smile grows to show teeth.
“How about this,” I venture after a moment. “You seem like you need something stronger than just tea. I’ll get us each a glass of wine. We can work on the minutes tomorrow. You need to unwind so we can have you on top of your game, hm?”
“Sure,” he breathes, grey eyes not leaving my face as I hover above him.
I feel like this is the start of something lovely.