#for now. inspired by various baby crimes committed just this morning. Fresh on my mind.. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dreamweavermosseux · 7 years

Text

Preparation

Mosseux can't sleep. He huddles on his sofa, sinking into the plush cushions, but though his eyelids ache they won't close. In the small fits of rest he has managed, visions too terrible to endure have plagued him. The fangs of the Mordrem draw ever nearer. Hot breath sprays across his back like a steam jet, its footfalls rend the earth beneath it. Wakefulness no longer brings relief. Mosseux figures that the Mordrem was a precursor of what is coming for Verdance. For him. He doesn't understand the crimes they have committed. Property damage, sure, but what of the rest? No one is claiming that they didn't happen. Names unfamiliar to him want for his death: Sovreign, Gregorias. Did Verdance collect its sins years ago, before he filled out an application or perhaps before he even emerged from his pod, and he inherited the guilt by association? Or did all this occur behind closed office doors, in the depths of the brig, in Mordrem camps and secret pirate isles? There are names seeking revenge that he knows all too well though. Nightmare Court, for one. Mosseux wonders if the scattered remains of Ainbertach's den have united once again under Sovreign's banner. Surely they will call for the head of the one who skewered their leader. He recalls brief flashes of Ras impaled, Laecin's headless body, the study soaked in his blood. And the Inquest, Mosseux has known to fear since he was only months old. He has entered their labs, disrupted their horrifying experiments. Somehow the level of cruelty always surprises him. His mind betrays him as he imagines being strapped to an operating table or hooked into some ghastly machine, stripped naked because their victims are always naked, that's how you rob them of association with living beings deserving of respect, and implanted with a bomb or a chip that melts him brain until he's nothing more than a drone. He imagines this fate for his coworkers and it's enough to drive him to tears. Neither the Court nor the Inquest kills their captives swiftly. Mosseux curls onto his side and cries into his hands. He doesn't want to die. Not that way, not now, at only two years old. Cherri, a grown fernhound now but still smaller than average, hops on the couch and lays her head on Mosseux's hip with a soft whine. His head snaps up. "Oh, baby girl," Mosseux says, sitting up and stroking her soft red-hued fronds. "It's ok. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. Maybe...maybe you can stay with my sister? She can watch after you." Llyr. What is he going to say to her? Handing off Cherri would raise suspicion and Mosseux can't lie to her face. Even if he tried, Llyr would see right through it and throw herself headlong into the fray, or worse, smuggle him out of Verdance. He decides the best course of action is to say nothing, let her believe that he is fine, everything is fine. He sighs, brushing his bangs back with one hand. "No, that won't work. You'll have to stay here." Gazing around his apartment in the dim early morning light, the openness of it that once pleased him so now seems like an invitation for trouble. Mosseux swings his legs over the couch edge and gathers his notebook. Cherri pads after him as he paces. "I'll have to buy some wards. Make sure no one can get in by the beach or the bridge if I'm not here. I hope that my savings will cover it...ugh, I shouldn't have spent so much on that dataslate." He scratches out the word "purchase". "No. I can make them myself. It's fine. This is fine. I just need some time." Time. Time is not on their side. Verdance has a week, probably. Maybe. A week, at most, to prepare to fight for their lives. You poor boy. You've never seen an animal eat itself just to survive. You're about to. That's what Polyitzo said to Mosseux, but he forces the echo aside. Instead he holds onto Baine's reassurances, that Verdance has handled worse and will prevail against the odds. The community leaders had planned a trip to Lion's Arch. How can he make that happen? "We need disguises. In case we need to go out." Mosseux sits at his desk, flipping to a page where he sketched a version of himself with white fronds. It was meant to be merely a fashion statement, but now it would become a means of survival. By candlelight, he redraws the jawline, removes his telling goatee, plumps the lips just a touch and tweaks the nose. Soon the face is unrecognizable as his own. He writes a name in the bottom right corner of the page: ((image)) "I could offer the others glamours. Maybe polymorphs for something more secure." Massaging his temples, Mosseux sets the notebook aside. He's never practiced polymorph on others, besides a gorilla monster. Once, with disastrous results. He couldn't bear to put anyone through the pain, even an animal. If someone volunteered, though, he may have to consider using them as a test subject. Lighting the candles on his desk, Mosseux clasps his hands and rests his forehead on them, praying to the small Lyssa sculpture between the candles. "I know you're not listening, but I need your inspiration now more than ever. Whatever knowledge you gave to the Dream, allow me to draw on it and use it to protect us. Please please please if we are attacked by an enemy mesmer, let me see through their illusions, let me see the truth and guide the others to it. Let me use the gifts I was given to my fullest ability, that's all I ask." Rather than blow out the candles, Moss picks one up by its base and stands. He collects various items in it: his jewelry, the dog-eared poetry volumes by his favorite author Diagha and the epic romance Her Lady's Valiant, the handheld Super Adventure Box games from Aithne, the wood carvings from Jaen and Keiranon, the fluffy cornflower blue scarf that smells like fresh laundry from Cantair, a pack of playing cards, and his plush animals. Sitting cross-legged on the cold golden floor, he scrawls on the outside: No matter what happens, you are still you. Look inside when you feel like breaking. Remember that there is beauty in the world. The box is set aside. Later that day, he will take it to Nathan for safe keeping and tell him to let the coalition know it's there. What makes him happy, the material possessions anyway, no longer belong to only him. As frivolous as they are, he hopes that they may bring some joy when it matters. On a calendar, Mosseux had marked dates for potential events. Discussions, team building meetings, another book club meeting, more dodgeball. A hollow laugh escapes him. How pointless it all seemed. He almost tosses it in the trash, but stops. "We'll need something to invigorate us. If the guild hall stays safe...I can make adjustments. Yes." The calendar is spared, set on the desk for later. Mosseux unlocks his desk drawer. A lockbox with intricate silver designs nestles in one corner. It contains his revolver, a gift from Airia. He retrieves it and checks the barrel. Four bullets sit snugly in the chamber. That's all the ammo Moss currently has to his name. The bridge to his apartment groans, a telltale sign that someone is coming. Mosseux raises the gun, holding it with both hands. The decorative filigree that doubles as a magical conduit pulses purple as he channels chaos magic through it, charging a spell that won't kill, but will stun. Cherri huddles behind her owner, tail between her legs. "Who's there?" he demands, far more authoritative than he feels. His forearms shake, making it difficult to hold his aim steady. Soon, a mushroom comes into view, carrying a bundle with him. Ras. Mosseux immediately drops the gun and runs to him, relief flooding his empathy. They wrap each other in their arms, and Mosseux slips under the cap to plant kisses along his jaw. Cherri greets Ras with a wagging tail. "Apologies for scaring you, my love," Ras says. "I'm just glad I didn't -- dammit. I'm already skittish and it's only day one." With one last smooch on the lips, Mosseux slips away to lock up the revolver. "It's fine to be cautious. It will keep you alive." "I guess, but...anyway. Welcome to Chateau de Mosseux." He gestures around vaguely. "It's not much, I admit. But please, make yourself comfortable. I hope the trip from the Grove wasn't too rough." Ras ventures further inside, peering at the bookshelf, then past it. "Not much? Moss, you have your own beach." The mushroom grins teasingly as Moss's glow flares, then bows and spreads his bundle, comprised of only his prayer mat and a few candles. "The trip was uneventful. After what you told me over comms, I was honestly disappointed." Mosseux scoffs. "Well, I for one am glad to hear that." He kneels beside Ras, who takes Moss into his lap. They stay on the ground a while, not a sound passing between them except the calm waves shushing the couple as the ebb and flow rolls upon the sand. Mosseux snuggles into Ras's broad chest, finding it difficult to keep his eyes open. His grip loosens. Ras whispers in his ear, "You're tired." "Mnnnybe." The reply is muffled when Mosseux turns his face into Ras's shoulder. With a content click, Ras lifts the sleepy mesmer bridal style. "Where is your bed?" he asks. "Couch..." Mosseux stretches a hand in a random direction and waves it in the air. Luckily, there's only one couch in the apartment. Ras is a bit too large for it and has to draw in his knees to fit, but soon he settles in, Mosseux squeezed between the couch cushions and the mushroom. It's warm and Ras's arms are strong, his breathing soft. Ras is here. He is safe, he is alive. But Ras cannot be his shield. Mosseux's body finally forces him into a dreamless sleep.

#journal #short story

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