to a discordant melody

KORBIN

Leave my loneliness unbroken!
- quit the bust above my door!

Red and black. That was Weaver, alright. A big roaring fireplace, that spilled warmth and light over the big room in abandon. Very much Weaver too, to keep wasting firewood when half the hearth would be enough.

Korbin stood at the center of the newly built tavern, hands shoved deep into his pockets. The expression of the boy as he looked around was sullen and reluctant. The face of someone who had been roped into being where he didn't want to be, doing what he would have been happy to do... under any circumstance but this.

The place wasn't open for business yet. Crates and kegs stood piled in corners, waiting to be sorted - by him - while bottles and jugs, mugs and plates and a wide variety of food was meant to be put in place - also by him. But his hunched shoulders spoke of reluctance, the feathering of his jaw indicating a temptation to take out his frustrations on the place, to break it rather than help build it up.

"Fuck this shit," he cussed, kicked at one of the crates, and shifted. Black wings carried him up to the rafters where he settled in as a big, black raven, to sulk. Already done with this place before he'd even begun to work there.

Quoth the Raven,
"Nevermore."

SUNJATA

the flood

'cause we might as well be blind,
if seeing is believing, this parable's misleading

One thing Sunjata knows that he does like about Halo, is the healing magic. That usually where he’d go to get hours and hours of work done for an itch he hasn’t been able to get rid of since the meeting with Safrin. Naturally, the first thing he does is find out from Weaver that artist of hers, makes his way through the chill and cold of Halo, and with the combination of art and magic he’s successful in completing one sleeve in one sitting.

Black whirls that look like waves are interspersed with purples and blues of a galaxy formation throughout the back, trailing from beneath his wing tattoos all the way down to his wrist. And once it’s completed, while the arm is sore, it’s nothing he can’t handle while he makes his way toward the bar they’re in the process of constructing.  

Arriving, the roaring fire already makes this place habitable. The red and black a beautiful sight as he enters, shrugs off the furs and cloak to hang inside, stretching out his newly tattooed arm to loosen it up a bit. He hasn’t seen Korbin, hasn’t seen the bird that sits in the rafters. So all he does is ensure the daggers Safrin has given him are at his side and at the ready, lifting the lid of one of the crates in interest before his gaze flits around the room. “Weaver?” His accented rumble reverbs against the walls as he calls out to her, wondering whether she’s here yet or not.

you've got your shotgun loaded with excuses
— that you'll fire in vain —
but those 12 rounds just won't do

KORBIN

And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,

The bird ruffled its feathers when the door was opened - without even a fucking knock - and glared down at the figure that came waltzing in. Like he owned the place. Beady birds eyes narrowed at the way this person shrugged off clothes and hung them away, like it was a home and not an establishment. That wasn't even open yet.

The hostility that emanated from his mind was palpable. There was no doubt about it, this had to be the mysterious stranger Weaver had gotten involved with. No one in Halo would take this kind of liberties with his family, and if it had been a local, Korbin would know who it was.

Dark wings unfurled soundlessly, and Korbin tilted down, let himself drop in a controlled dive down to the floor behind the man. He shifted then, landing on cat-quiet feet just behind his back.

"Not here," he said, hands tucked back into those same pockets.

Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

SUNJATA

the flood

'cause we might as well be blind,
if seeing is believing, this parable's misleading

He’s met with silence at first, lifting the lid to the next crate while he waits to hear some sort of response. Perhaps he’s being too casual here, most of his focus to the soreness of his arm, that when the voice appears behind his back surprisingly close, he has his dagger at the ready in an instant as he turns, arms outstretched to try and latch onto the man and pin him against a pile of crates, one of Safrin’s daggers at his throat. The one that calls for blood.

The blade is sharp and cold as he rests it there, steel eyes dark and navy feathers sprouting along his shoulders as the only evidence of being caught off guard. “And who, exactly, are you?” He asks, somewhat also surprised at how tall this man is in comparison to many of the others he’s been around. But he scans his face nonetheless, searching for something, blade pressed against his neck — waiting for a reason not to break the skin.

Though Korbin would find that if he moved toward Sunjata, it absolutely would make him bleed.

(Permission to PP granted by Chan <3)

you've got your shotgun loaded with excuses
— that you'll fire in vain —
but those 12 rounds just won't do

KORBIN

And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,

Korbin wasn't much of a fighter, but he did have the training for it. The kind of cocky, arrogant courage of a kid who thought himself able to get out of any pinch, and didn't get into scraps because he chose not to.

Well, turns out it was a really fucking stupid idea to creep up behind the back of a stranger that was not only as big as him - or bigger, really, but Korbin didn't want to admit that - but apparently a whole lot more keen on the whole dagger business. As the man whirled on him and grabbed a hold of his shirt by the collar, Korbin staggered back against the crates, the wood hard and stabby at his back, while a different kind of stabby was pressed to his throat. He got his arms up between his chest and the other man, fists clenched.

Lips pulled back in a startled snarl, blue eyes flashing in surprised anger at this unprovoked attack. "None of yor fucking business!" he snapped, and tried to shove the dude off. But as he pushed to straighten himself up, the blade of the dagger bit into his skin, drawing a thin line of crimson along his throat. Blood beaded along the edge of the cold metal.

It was far sharper than he'd thought possible. Korbin stilled. Emotions surging and swelling in the Attuned bond, anger and pain now mingling with a sudden tang of fear.

Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

SUNJATA

the flood

'cause we might as well be blind,
if seeing is believing, this parable's misleading

He can feel the clenched fists between him and this other man, still unknown to him with the blade pressed against his throat. But Sunjata doesn’t relent — in a far better position than Korbin is at this very moment. And as Korbin snarls back in his face, Sunjata can’t help the dark smirk that crosses his face, a chuckle that leaves him at the audacity as Korbin struggles to get released.

The blade slices his neck, and hot blood from the cut begins to drip along the dagger. And internally, Sunjata wonders what race this man is, what kind of things he was looking for in this place. But the man stills and Sunjata’s fist tightens in the man’s collar, pushing him back with the blade still at his throat. He can feel the anger, pain, hint of fear in the Attuned bond, and that smirk grows a small amount. “Actually, it is my business. This is my business.” He says, referring to the bar, teeth partially shifted to fangs as he focuses on the man before him with that predatory stillness of his panther form.

“So. You’re going to tell me who the fuck you are.” He pulls the blade away a small amount, an inch away from the man’s skin, waiting for an answer.

you've got your shotgun loaded with excuses
— that you'll fire in vain —
but those 12 rounds just won't do

KORBIN

And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,

Oh yeah, it was easy to smirk when you had the upper hand. Ha ha, this situation was hilarious. But Korbin wasn't entirely a pushover - he did know a few tricks - and when the man's teeth elongated into fangs, adding a certain vicious edge to that smile of his, Korbin knew it was time to get out of reach.

He shrunk under the hands of the other man, as soon as the dagger was let up from his skin. Cloth faded away into silken down that slipped through the mans fingers, and a sharp beak hacked viciously at the annoyingly calm expression on his face. There was a frantic flap of big wings, the clawing of taloned feet, and Korbin tried his best to get airborne, to return high up into the rafters where he would be - hopefully - out of reach.

"I'm Korbin Hale," he croaked, the caw of the raven overlapped with the young man's voice. Crimson beads stained the inky blackness of his feathers, and turning his head hurt more as a bird than as a man. "Weaver's brother!" And it rankled, to have to hide behind his sister's name to get himself out of this mess. One he would be sure to thank her for later, at length.

Oh, he was pretty sure he was not about to like this guy, at all.

Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

SUNJATA

the flood

'cause we might as well be blind,
if seeing is believing, this parable's misleading

He’s smart to use his shift to his advantage, once Sunjata lifts the blade. The raven is released enough to drift toward the rafters again. Free to hide and dwell and bleed up there for all that Sunjata cares about it. Steel eyes still follow the man toward the ceiling, before turning down toward the blade covered in a sheen of blood when the words hit him.

Weaver’s brother. Ah, somehow that makes sense. He smirks lightly to the information, settled in as he continues to peruse the crates, putting the blade away but still within reach. At least the cut along Korbin’s neck isn’t too deep. Still, it’d be an uncomfortable sensation for a while. Good start. He offers through the attuned bond back to the man, shifting his gaze from the crate back to the rafters.

Could’ve started with that instead of sneaking up on a stranger. He offers. His accent is thicker in the bond, warping around the words offered. And while there’s a variety of emotions that flit from Korbin toward him, all Sunjata sends is feigned disinterest. “Plenty of stock, things to be put up and polished…” He hums. “Are you to be her help with putting the rest of it together?” He asks.

you've got your shotgun loaded with excuses
— that you'll fire in vain —
but those 12 rounds just won't do

KORBIN

And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,

The guy was awfully calm about this whole affair, even considering the speed with which he had pulled the dagger. It spoke of a person well versed in the kind of trouble Korbin preferred to avoid. He huddled in the rafters, feathers ruffled both figuratively and literally, beak slightly open as he huffed for breath. Heart beating frantically from the rush of adrenaline.

But the man did not seem intent on pursuing him, and it calmed him, enough that he came back down to the ground and shifted back. With the return to a human shape, all those flaring emotions were tucked neatly back behind a barrier that was near impenetrable, just the way a cocky smirk slipped over Korbin's lips.

"Now, what would be the fun in that?" he quipped. Touching long fingers to the cut on his neck, they pulled away with crimson staining the fingertips. He stared at his own blood for a moment, then shrugged and wiped it off on his trousers. Dark, just like his shirt. Black for a raven, it was very poetic.

At the question whether he would be Weaver's 'help', Korbin snorted. Shoving his hands back into the pockets, he sauntered back across the floor, acting for all the world like he hadn't just gotten his ass handed to him.

"Sunjata, is it? You've clearly never seen my sister try to keep a house. Give it two weeks, and I'll be running this place while she drinks with the customers. Not sure who will be helping who."  

Cocking his head, Korbin looked the man over, more closely now that they were at the same eye-level. Tall, heavy, clearly older than himself... A raised brow suggested that the youth wasn't too impressed, all the same.

Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

SUNJATA

the flood

'cause we might as well be blind,
if seeing is believing, this parable's misleading

“The fun in that is staying alive.” Sunjata returns, turning to face the man again, head held tall. From this point, Korbin might notice a scar along the flood’s neck somewhat similar to the wound he’s given to the other attuned, though Sunjata’s is much longer, much deeper, jagged in the way a deep wound typically was.

The snort is met with a raised brow of his own, clearly not as entertained or cocky as his younger man was. And he folds his arms across his chest, albeit somewhat delicately with the dark hued sleeve of ink along his right arm to his wrist. Fingers tap along his bare bicep as he listens, the quirk of a smirk crossing his face. “You act as though that’s not exactly what I want her to do.”

He shifts his weight a small amount, watching Korbin curiously. “It certainly helps me out.”

you've got your shotgun loaded with excuses
— that you'll fire in vain —
but those 12 rounds just won't do

KORBIN

And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,

Dark blue eyes flitted over the tattooed skin. Korbin knew the style, could tell it was fresh work and that it was made by an artist. One of the best, whose work covered the skin of both himself and his sister. Rather than feel any bond of kinship at the connection however, it made his lip curl.

"See, that's the thing I don't get. Why do we have to do anything to help you out?" He bore the scrutiny of Sunjata's gaze with seeming ease, more than a little sceptic about this man. He reeked of trouble, and if he wanted Weaver to gossip, then there had to be a reason for it. "Why are you here?"

It was a challenge, the question hard and clear and unwavering. Encompassing much more than the man's presence within the tavern; it extended to him being in Halo, too. Casually opening business, taking advantage of their services... and for what?

Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

SUNJATA

the flood

'cause we might as well be blind,
if seeing is believing, this parable's misleading

Another deep chuckle leaves Sunjata and he shakes his head, moving to one of the earlier crates and opening it to reveal some of the alcohol he’d had sent over from the VlamVloed, ensuring that none of the bottles had broken in transit. “Technically, you don’t have to do anything. Neither does she. We hashed the deal out, I got the Warden’s approval to make the bar. Here we are.” His gaze flits back up to Korbin.

“I’m here to ensure my end of the deal with your sister goes according to plan. To give her something she wants. Is that not good enough for you?” He asks, right when another sound hits the door with a bang and he sighs — approaching it to let Haai in. In her mouth she carries a small bag, full of extra quills and writing utensils they may need. But she’d gotten distracted while Sunjata had made his way here, took her a bit longer to arrive.

He closes the door again when she enters, the griffin pausing to stare at Korbin with scrutinizing eyes, before she clamors somewhere in the back to drop off the bag. She returns at his feet soon after, a watchdog of sorts.

you've got your shotgun loaded with excuses
— that you'll fire in vain —
but those 12 rounds just won't do

KORBIN

And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,

Korbin shook his head. "No, see, that's not how things work. If Weaver makes a deal, that means I'm getting dragged into it whether I like it or not. Begs the question though, why you want a bar in this shithole of a town. You're not from here." The way he said it, it was both accusation and insult.

He looked at the door when something banged on the outside. Korbin was only too happy to let Sunjata deal with it, and narrowed his eyes at the huge wolf-bird thing that came waltzing inside, carrying a bag in its jaws. Griffin? Chimera? He didn't know, didn't care.

Making no effort to help with the unpacking of the crates, Korbin stood his ground. "Like you know anything about what my sister wants," he sneered. "From where I stand, it looks like you've baited her into this, and one day the fishing you'll have her do is gonna get her hurt, or killed. Tell me I'm wrong."

Though the mental shield he had against his emotions were strong, the protectiveness practically oozed from the kid as he spoke of his sister. Weaver hadn't told him much about this man, or why he was planting bars like so many seeds, but Korbin didn't like the smell of it.

Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

SUNJATA

the flood

'cause we might as well be blind,
if seeing is believing, this parable's misleading

Why does he want a bar in Halo? He looks back down to the crate and pulls a bottle of wine from the crate, setting it aside to be put up once he can organize what’s all arrived. “Honestly? Because the alcohol sucks here.” He chuckles lightly, grabbing another bottle and setting it aside. He doesn’t delve into guild business, not unless the man asks directly himself — unsure of what Weaver has told him about their little deal.

He continues to pull bottles from the crate until it’s empty while he listens to Korbin’s accusations, the protectiveness that radiates from the man, and he sighs in some part nostalgia. “You’re wrong.” He sets his arms atop the crate, turning to look back at the other tall man, a dark brow raised. “I get it, though. Take it from someone who also has a sister.” He gestures to himself before turning to grab the bottles and set them on a shelf.

He returns to the empty crate, putting it aside and grabbing another one. “The last thing I want is for Weaver to get hurt. Got it?” The last thing he wants is to have more of his guild members hurt or harmed in ways that could have been prevented. But he can’t outwardly say it. Still, he hopes the honesty of those words fall through the attuned bond, to prove to him that he’d much prefer that to not happen.

you've got your shotgun loaded with excuses
— that you'll fire in vain —
but those 12 rounds just won't do