to a discordant melody

KORBIN

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

Korbin paused, just as he was about to lift the new crate. Unpacking went surprisingly smooth, with more than one pair of hands. The question made him frown down at his own hands. "Someone has to keep the fires burning," he said. A noncommittal answer, but the tone betrayed him. Being left behind was grating on him, and had for quite a while. Already it had made him snap at his sister.

Heaving the cargo up on strong arms used to hard work, he ignored the grin on the other man's face and walked past him, hands regrettably too full to repeat the theft of earlier. He saw at least three possible openings for interesting things to be pilfered away, but... it wasn't worth the risk of being introduced to that dagger again. The novelty had already worn off anyway.

"They must have it easy, if they can play games all day long," he scoffed. That's all the thievery was to him. A way to pass dull moments. Possibly it had scored him and his sister a few meals during rough times... but Weaver didn't know that. She thought he had bartered for the food, and Korbin hadn't corrected her.

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 response from Korbin is perhaps a bit flat. He can hear the tone of his voice, the frustration that may linger within. And a part of him – the younger part of himself understands it – but he doesn’t comment further on it. Simply a nod, some hidden understanding between them while they worked and he focused on not fucking up the inkwork he’d had done to his arm. Still, Korbin’s moving a crate and stepping nearby, and Sunjata’s careful about the way he watches the man to prevent him from trying to snatch anything else.

The comment of a game strikes him a bit odd – how it had been a game of sorts when he’d had the blade pressed to the other man’s throat. But he doesn’t comment on that confusion either. He simply reaches for another crate, prying open the lid to find one bottle partially broken and a wine spider gorging itself on it.

He sighs, reaching in to lift the drunken spider from the box from the VlamVloed, surprised that it had made it this far, knowing it probably wouldn’t end up lasting if it were from the grounds. At the very least though, he could let the creature have a bit more fun before it perished in the cold. “Pirates, smuggling, thievery… Not quite games, but exciting all the same.” He shrugs in response, lifting the spider to his shoulder to give it a place to perch while he pulls out what’s left of the bottle.

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,

Exciting, perhaps, but that was hardly important. "Fun usually doesn't put food on the table," he said, dismissing the notion with disparaging wave. Anything that didn't have to do with survival was ultimately unimportant. Hunting, even if you hated it. Fighting, because it was a necessary skill to know. Bartering and trading, because his sister was too busy doing the two former to have time for it, and because Korbin was better at it anyway. It was a harsh life, a bleak existence. No, Korbin didn't fault Weaver for dreaming of something better, but it still hurt that she had to go outside their small, broken scrap of a family to find it.

Sunjata's sigh had him throw a glance over to see what the problem was. Korbin blinked at the sight of the thing the man lifted out of the crate, brows rising up high beneath the unruly mop of dark hair. "What the fuck is that?" he asked before he could stop himself. Inching closer, he was both repulsed and intrigued to see a whole lot of hairy legs wiggle between the man's fingers.

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

“That kind of fun does.” He explains before he’s distracted by the wine spider, feeling it drunkenly crawl along his hands. He sets it on his shoulder as he reaches for the rest of the bottle and whatever’s left, stepping toward the kitchen once more with one hand braced against the fuzzy creature as it wobbles atop his shoulder. And when he returns with a bowl, he steps over to the counter top to pour the rest of the wine in it.

His gaze flits to Korbin when he reaches up to grab the spider again. “This is a wine spider.” He says, picking up the awkward creature, setting it on the table top as it wobbles and staggers toward the bowl, completely gluttonous in its beady multiple eyes as it reaches for it with two of its legs. “This one hitched a ride from the bar over here. How he made it, I don’t know.” He snorts, smirk returning as he moves to adjust the bowl so the spider can reach every bit of it – sucking it down like a siphon.

His gaze lifts to Korbin once again. “They’re harmless, just want to intrude on everything and get drunk.” Like a lot of people he knows, though he doesn’t add that last bit in.

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,

With beady fascination, Korbin leaned down to rest his arms on the counter, half hiding behind his arms as he watched the spider gorge itself. The many legs and the wobbly movements were simultaneously cringey and hilarious. He reached out a long-fingered hand to poke at the hairy body, and grinned when the slight prod made the critter stagger away in the opposite direction.

"Anyone who makes it across the Tundra in one piece is welcome to spend the night in the Citadel," he declared.

"Doubt it'll survive the weather for long though. You should take it back when you leave." He straightened and turned his back on the animal, and kept working to fill up the shelves. The crates were emptying quickly.

No question of if Sunjata would leave. That much was already a given, and good riddance. Shame to waste a life unnecessarily though... a line of thinking that ill suited the climate, too. Try as he might to hide it, the softness in him shone through, even now.

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 lets Korbin inspect the spider, remaining nearby to adjust the bowl to let the arachnid clean the ceramic the best it can. And when it’s done, a hiccup slips from it and Sunjata can’t help the quiet hum of a chuckle that leaves him. A nod of agreement with Korbin’s declaration. The tundra was something else, something dreadful every time Sunjata was there.

The least he could do was agree with the sentiment.

The mention of bringing it back when he leaves is met with a nod — though Sunjata knows better than that. Knows better than to believe the creature would make it back. He also hasn’t intended on returning to the Grounds just yet — a few things left in Halo to do, a tattooed arm to heal. He chews on the inside of his cheek, picking the spider up again and placing it on a table near the fire, reaching for another bottle of wine to fill the bowl half full before setting it beside the creature to watch it stagger toward it with a swagger that sadly reminds him too much of Adam.

So he also turns from the spider, grabbing another box and beckoning Haai mentally to add more flame to the fireplace — puffs of smoke curling about her maw as she does so, weaving her way around his legs with a tired yip.

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,

Silence fell. All he got from Sunjata was a couple of nods, that could mean anything. Korbin didn't press the issue though - when the man would leave, whether he would actually take the poor spider along - because he frankly didn't care.

Or, well. Didn't care about Sunjata, at least. The spider was a different matter, it had caused him no offense.

Still, he couldn't help but raise a brow, between his shifting crates and unpacking, when the man not only fed the animal more wine but added more logs to the fire as well. It was wasteful, and a little too mushy for a guy that whipped out daggers for a greeting. His gaze turned to the big wolf-bird-thing, blue raven eyes finding kinship in the line of the black-and-white wings as well as in the canine. Wolves and ravens usually did get along fine.

"I will help Weaver, with this place," he eventually said. Not sure the point had come across earlier. "Because she asked me to."

'But I'm not working for you', seemed to be the underlying sentiment. Unsaid, unvoiced, unfelt... but perhaps the silence could get the emphasis across.

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

“Kom ek kry vir jou 'n kussing.” He hums to the griffin, stepping away from the wine spider to reach for one of the cushions used for a booth, propping it up beside the fire while Haai watched Korbin with glittering green eyes. He pats the makeshift bed when done, and the griffin moves to curl up on it, head on her paws as she sleepily watches the two men work.

Sunjata grabs another crate and opens it to find a few more bottles of alcohol, pulling them out while he listens to the fire and Korbin’s voice when it pipes up. “Noted.” He rumbles, because he hadn’t cared whether Korbin worked for him or not. This was Weaver’s bar now. It just had his influence, his ear within it. Whether Korbin helped with that or not was no loss on his part.

“It’s Weaver’s bar, anyway.” He says, gaze sliding up to meet Korbin’s as he puts the bottles away. He might run the operation from behind closed doors, run the crates of decent alcohol and ensuring it gets here, but once everything reaches these doors and he’s not around to help, it’s all on her.

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,

Dusk blue met steel gray, and Korbin held the gaze of the other man, weighing the words. Tried to discern whether that was the actual truth, or if he was right about the many hooks and catches that seemed to lurk in the shadows. But he had meant it, when he said he didn't trust words. So whether or not to believe in this supposed hands-off-attachment was a matter of time, really.

"So you keep saying." Korbin turned away. The distrust remained, but at least the worst of the hostility was gone. Tucked safely back under wraps, replaced by a profound disinterest that extended to the foreign language the man used to talk to his pet. Some Outlander speak that made no sense at all.

A few loose corks had been left in one of the crates before it was packed. Korbin fished them out, and juggled them casually in one hand as he went to return it, hands restless as his thoughts, for all that the expression was impassive.

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

Their gaze meets and Sunjata finds his own storms impassible. A shield and a mask in place because it wasn’t just the distrust from Korbin that Sunjata could feel, it was the unsaid words beneath the tension that was palpable within the room. Honestly, Sunjata didn’t care too much about it — focused on the task of ensuring everything was up to his standards, and in turn, Weaver’s as well.

So when Korbin replies, all it does is spark a quiet chuckle, a smile crossing that face of his as he shakes his head. “So I mean it.” He clarifies with a faltering smile as he reaches to place more bottles, moving the empty crate toward the others, beginning the process of breaking them down for when he brings them back to the Grounds and makes another trip. He’s cautious with how he does it, trying to ensure no splinters find their way into the fresh ink work.

The spider continues to gorge itself and Haai hums quietly in her sleep.

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,

Again, his eyes narrowed as he searched the man for any trace of lies, of deceit and underlying motives. Korbin prided himself on being a people person, able to at the very least pick out a lie told to his face... but while Sunjata did seem to honestly mean what he said - like he emphasised - there was still something that kept niggling at Korbin. There was more to this whole affair, and it bugged him that he couldn't figure out what it was.

Guess he would have to actually find out for himself what Weaver and this guy were up to. Spying on his sister wasn't much of a challenge, but this guy? Now there was something to work on.  

He let the matter drop, and kept working until there were hardly any crates left. With the tableware and the liquor in place, all that was left were the food supplies. Fishing out simple writing utensils, he began to take inventory of what was there and what would have to be stocked up on before opening.

"Do you intend to stay here while you're in town?" he asked absently, the sullenness forgotten under the sincere concentration. He took the tasks rather seriously, once he actually got around to doing them.

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 silence is nearly a welcome reprieve from what other kinds of arguments they can get into. But the daggers are kept carefully at his side, his earrings within his ears as far as he was aware – a quick shake of his head and the weight of them ensuring that yes they indeed were a part of it. And he continues to break down the crates to pile the wood within its own pile, the rest of it for later use because repurposing was what Sunjata knew about many things of the Grounds as well as what they had done back home in the rebellion.

He’s surprised with the tone of Rance’s voice, seemingly distracted by what it is he’s working on. Sunjata pulls another board from the crate, dropping it onto the pile once more before brushing his hands off of the wood as he goes to gather the nails used to keep it together. “It’s either here or the Inn down the street.” He offers, as if it made the answer clear. But Korbin doesn’t know him, doesn’t know what kind of memories sit within the Inn down the street.

So he exhales quietly, collecting the nails and grabbing a couple ropes to begin to tie the wood into its own pile for easy transport. “I plan on staying here.” He offers after a moment in a final type of answer, the muscles of his back moving beneath the shirt while he works on the task at hand, clearly a man that’s focused on keeping prime as if pinning the boy to the crates with a dagger to his throat hadn’t been any other indication.

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,

Scribbling something on the paper, the young man nodded at the reply with a thoughtful hum, calculation narrowing those dark blue eyes as he kept going over the supplies.

"Alright. Weaver has yet to set up a menu for this place, so you'll have to make do with what I can make for now." He scrubbed a hand over the face, dragged fingers through the unruly black hair and immediately tried to smooth it back down again, to no avail.

Throwing a glance at the roaring fireplace, he sighed. It filled the room with balmy heat, and it made working far more sweaty a business than he was used to. Pausing, Korbin pulled the thick sweater over his head and hefted it onto a nearby chair before moving to carry the remaining items into storage. The plain tank top worn beneath showed off a wiry, reedy built and the kind of body that had yet to fully come into its own. His muscles was of the sinewy type, from too much work and not enough food, a far cry from the swelling opulence Sunjata could boast. Peaking up over the collar at the back of Korbin's neck was the dark lines of ink, black wings spreading feathers over the back and shoulders. Lifelike enough that they could have been real.

"Anything you don't eat?" he asked, in the same focused manner as before. Welcoming was perhaps taking it a bit too far, but Korbin did at least try not to be rude. Customer, and all that. Focusing on that made the man's presence easier to swallow.

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 offer of food is rather surprising to him – that Korbin would even be willing to make something for him while he stays. But the offer is there, and Sunjata nods in some hint of understanding. He isn’t sure what to say back to it while he ties up the wood from the crates and connects the rest of it all within a space that keeps it easy to hide away. But with the work done, he exhales quietly – moving toward where Korbin takes inventory – content to let the man figure it out for his own.

He finds a seat in a recently set up booth, stretching his long legs out before him, propping his arms on the table with his back to the fire – gaze flickering along Korbin (the reedy body, the tattoos that peak over his collar) before the rest of the interior of the Kraai. The question hits him while he focuses on the red of the walls, the black of the accents. “I have a rather iron stomach.” He offers with a quiet hum of a chuckle to that, settling and leaning back and letting his fingers drum against the wood of the table.

“What kind of food are you thinking about serving here?” He asks, casually interested in what the man has in mind.

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