And to that I hold

KORBIN

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

It was more early than late. The Kraai was quiet, all the patrons gone for the night or asleep in their rooms, or on cots by the flickering light of the hearth. After posting the notice earlier in the day, Korbin had spent the majority of the day answering questions, reassuring the refugees and interrogating the staff. Most of them would have to leave. Only the chef remained of the people Weaver had originally hired, the rest casually hiring themselves or replacing a friend or just pitching in... and he was grateful. No question, they had stepped up when he couldn't and Korbin sent them off with good words and a small cask of booze each, and there weren't too many hard feelings. But they still had to go. And without competent staff, with food and liqour stores severely depleted, he had no choice but to close down.

It was a good time for it. Would mean he could start fresh with the new season. Get the place properly cleaned up, new business connections established, new staff hired.

Have a week to himself to get used to the idea of committing to this life, to this business. To realize what the fuck he was doing.

Exhausted, but too wound up to sleep, Korbin had roamed into the kitchen. It was a mess, completely unacceptable, and he stared numbly at the greasy walls, the dirty floor, at unwashed pots and pans stacked high next to cutting boards he could have boiled soup on.

It was too much. Too big, too heavy. Slumping hard against the wall, Korbin dragged a hand over the face, craving a drink so badly that his hands shook.

The wall shifted beneath his back. There was a hollow sound, as of an echo being spread through a hollow space, and Korbin turned around, puzzled. He tapped the wall again, trying different places, to see if there was a difference in the sound. There was. Frowning, he fetched a candle and lit it on the hearth, and with the added light he searched for... anything. Color discrepancies, indentions... the fingers of his free hand searched for cracks and founf one.

Minutes later he stepped back, grim faced, and stared at the outline of a door. It was faint, cleverly disguised, and so hard to see that if he looked away he almost couldn't find it again. But the door was there. And it had a keyhole. Clearly the door led somewhere.

Since when had there been a room here?

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

She’d read the notice about the Kraai and kept her thoughts to herself, not wanting to be anywhere near the inevitable Korbin - Sunjata fight, if Sunjata’s description of their relationship were any indication of how the future might play out. All over a bar. Men.

Still, she has an itch to scratch before everyone buckles themselves in for LongNight; the Wraith appears in the doorway of the Kraai while Korbin is in the kitchen, wrinkling her nose at the parts that had not stayed clean since she, Elena, and Chuy had tidied up. There’s a noise in the back and she walks over to the bar, leaning over the slab she’d helped put in place. “Hello?” she calls out. “Korbin?”

Because who else would be back there now?

The Wraith
the bright
the thing in the night

Wessex

KORBIN

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

The voice calling his name broke Korbin out of his revery. Hissing as the candle dribbled wax over his hand, he tore his eyes away from the hidden door and went back out into the mess hall. Frowning even deeper as he spotted Wessex by the bar, he extinguished the flame, leaving only the glow of banked up fires to light the surroundings.

"Wessex. Where have you been? What are you doing here?" Keeping his voice down, he slipped in behind the counter, peeling solidified wax off his palm.

Something was off. He hadn't heard the door open or close, and there was no draft of cold air about her. How had she gotten inside?

Korbin had a lot of questions tonight.

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

“Where have I been?” she echoes back, slightly confused. “I didn’t know I was wanted or needed still.” Which goes more along with the ‘what are you doing here?’ part of his question. The two contradict each other, which she thinks is rather on par for the Hale boy right now. And that’s fine, grief does that. “Came to make sure none of the Grounders left anything behind,” she says, and then with a bit of a wistful expression, continues. “and to look for one of my knives.”

It would be an easy thing to misplace, easy for someone to pick up, to put in with the Kraai’s silverware. She isn’t wealthy so her knives are sharp and serviceable and plain. And she’s the type to have multiple knife-hiding places, isn’t she?

The Wraith
the bright
the thing in the night

Wessex

KORBIN

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

Korbin's frown deepened. "I meant, where in the Citadel have you been? I haven't seen you around for a long while." Granted, he had neither been looking nor paying attention, but somehow he found it hard to see the woman sitting holed up drinking tea in someone's living room for a week or two. And of course there was no way she could leave the town. Right?

But then, how had she gotten in through the door?

As for why she was there, a lost knife made enough sense that the young man nodded. It was an odd hour to wander in on though. Night lay black and heavy outside, and most sane people were asleep. Said a lot about the two of them. Mostly him, really...

"They've left plenty, themselves included," he replied, "as most won't be moving out until tomorrow. What does the knife look like? I'll help you find it." It would give him something to do. A reason to keep on his feet, keep moving, keep from thinking.

His own head was a nasty place to be, these days.

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

“Oh, I haven’t been in the Citadel,” Wessex says easily, waving it away. After all, her teleportation is no secret; Chuy, Neron, and Morgan all know, and Weaver knew - she doesn’t expect Korbin to be out of the loop. “I come and go as needed.” And with three very different areas, there’s a lot to ‘tend’ to and keep her eyes on. She didn’t choose the nomadic life, the Voice chose it for her.

Choosing to ignore the fact that Astor can’t read, Wessex nods at the offer of assistance to find her knife. “It’s about this long,” she says indicating her forearm, “Blade included. Dark wood, serrated at the tip, smooth at the base.” But other than that, there’s nothing to distinguish it from other knives. And while her voice is low, she cares little for the ruckus they might make whilst looking for it. Maybe if the Kraai had been cleaner it might have been easier, so it’s the sleeping patron’s own fault.

The Wraith
the bright
the thing in the night

Wessex

KORBIN

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

Korbin's eyebrows shot up, surprised disbelief making it clear he did not know about her abilities. "How is that possible?" Contrary to popular belief, Wessex and her abilities were not the go-to topic of discussion for a majority of people around Caido. If not for their latest  encounter while looting the Palace, he would not even be aware of her existence. Weaver had shared many things with her brother, but information on the Wraith had not been among them.

"Alright." Bewildered but committed to the task, Korbin began to help with the search. Starting in the 'lost and found' crate that had to exist in every business ever, he moved on to check tables, corners, nooks and crannies. He even went so far as to shift and fly up to the rafters, just to get an aerial view of the room. Different perspectives usually paid off.

And it did now too. Returning back down to the floor and his own form, Korbin reached in behind a chair in a shaded corner away from the fire, and emerged back with a knife in hand.

"Is this it?" he asked, holding it out for Wessex.

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

“I can teleport,” she informs him nonchalantly, whilst turning her attention to the bar and its immediate area, moving chairs around and dipping behind, to see if she’d ‘dropped’ it during a previous cleaning or tending session.

A flap of wings instead of footsteps catches her attention and she turns her head in time to see a raven fly up to the rafters. After a moment of consideration, Wessex decides to keep quiet about her singular run-in with another raven (or was it?) earlier this season. She’s crouched down when he calls out, sifting through the dirty dishes in the bin behind the bar, so she pops up and reaches out for the item. “Yep,” she declares after a moment, taping a scratch in the wood as if she remembers it, and then turns to clean and dry the blade off.

“So. Bar owner now. Are you going to keep it the same?” Running a less-dirty-than-the others rag around the metal, Wessex pops down to slip it into her inner boot holder before coming back up to re-focus her attention on Korbin.

The Wraith
the bright
the thing in the night

Wessex

KORBIN

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

The announcement made Korbin stop and stare at her for a good while. Then he shook his head and resumed the search, muttering under breath about magic users and their antics. The idea of a person being able to come and go so utterly unhindered  by weather, distances or walls was possibly the most offensive notion his controlling mind could imagine, and it made the hairs at the back of his neck stand up even worse than ascended stillness.

When the missing object had been retrieved, Korbin found a chair and turned it sideways, slumped down in it and leaned his back against the wall. He had his sister's way of looking perfectly at ease where he was, as if he'd always been meant to be there, and it was only too bad that the air did not reflect his state of mind.

"Unfortunately, yes. That's the plan, for the most part. Though there's gonna be some changes in the delivery chain... I don't have Weaver's taste in business partners." Leaning his chin on a palm, Korbin regarded Wessex thoughtfully. "Why the interest?"

That locals would want to know made sense, but this woman was not from here, and he didn't know anything about her connections. Why she was here now still puzzled him... it was a long trip for a knife.

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

His muttering does not go unnoticed. She shakes her head at the small-mindedness of it all, realizing that he really is little more than a child and still probably brainwashed. Teleportation en masse would be great for Halovians, but Goddess forbid they see the perks in it. The Wraith mentally moves him down the list of people she might want to get on her side; without Weaver and her positive influence here anymore, he might be a moot point.

Korbin confirms what Jata said and she suspects it might be better to keep her mouth shut about being friends (is that the right word for it? friends?) with the original supplier. “There’s a good bar in Torchline called the Hanged Man. Might want to make contact with the owner there for some supplier ideas if you get stuck.” And not just because Astor also plays Raza.

To his other question, she merely shrugs. “Making small talk..” Lest things become too awkward. Patting her leg, she says, “Thanks for the help,” and turns to leave unless he stops her.

The Wraith
the bright
the thing in the night

Wessex

KORBIN

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

Unaware that he was being weighed, measured and found lacking, Korbin shrugged lightly at the suggestion. He would have to look around, for sure, but first impression suggested that anything that came from Torchline likely would be polluted by the Arbiter already.

"I'll keep it in mind," he said blandly. The drinks he'd had at the Hanged Man were good but the climate too hot for him to be comfortable... and the company had definitely not been pleasant.

"No problem." This whole encounter was strange to him, but Korbin didn't have his sister's way with small talk. He saw no reason to keep Wessex there. So he let her go, yawning to himself, and when the woman had left he went back into the kitchen, to keep staring at the door.

Turns out he couldn't compel locks to open with his mind... so it remained shut. For now.

--------------
- Fin

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