westfallcorndog | Here Because of You (For Isidor)

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isidor

Here Because of You (For Isidor)

It's only been a few days since returning to the Nexus from Tamriel, but Harrowheart can't stop worrying about Isidor. She came out alive from everything they saw, but it's what they saw that worries him. He remembers what it's like, of course he does. How utterly unsettling it is to be a living person faced with monstrosities like that. The fear of it has faded with time, but he still remembers how sickening it all was the first time he saw the Scourge.

He pulls his phone from his pocket and his first thought is, 'Fuck me.' He still doesn't have Isidor's number. This is getting to be bullshit. Viatorus is going to start getting wise to how often he asks to spend time with his sister, and then the whole thing is going to come tumbling down. At least this time he has the excuse of an 'adventure' to cover for him.

V my man how are you doing? Are people being nice to you? Do I need to beat Peenia or Sajean up for you? Anyone at all? And when are we hanging out next?

Good, good cover. And honest, too. The last time they did anything interesting was when they went fishing, and after everything on Tamriel that feels like a lifetime ago. A little casual time with Viatorus would be great right about now.

How is your sister? I need to talk to her about things that happened. Do you think you can get her in touch with me? If she can meet me tell her to come to the clearing where we worked on magic training.

He expects Viatorus will pull through for him. Of course he will. That's why he's already in the clearing lying on top of the picnic bench, his runeblade resting on the ground beneath it. Nothing here has changed since the last time she arrived, apart from the turn of the seasons... And the little area of ground that she flattened for a fighting ring. It seems Harrowheart expanded on her work, turning a circle of flat pounded ground into a large square of hard-packed dirt.

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No salads? Good. It's clear to see the cogs are turning as she smiles at him thoughtfully. "Hm... I think I know exactly what you need."

Glad she has an idea of what to get, she starts towards the kitchen as soon as she's free. Only for her to stop in her tracks when he casually brings up her bedroom. Gods, has she even tidied it?

She turns around and looks him square in the eyes. "The moment you step into my bedroom you will be incinerated with all the force of twenty wards." She lets that sink in, and without so much as a twitch of her lips, turns around again and heads into the kitchen to get a menu and order their food.

Excuse Harrowheart for his lapse in gentlemanliness, but hearing Isidor suggest she knows 'exactly what he needs' in such a slyly thoughtful manner has him turning away to hide a blush. Don't let her see that, she'll kick you out of her apartment!...

He has to clear his throat before can turn back, but just when he's looking her way she fixes him with such a stare that he's positive she's going to reprimand him. And then she says... That. If his face could go any paler it would. Her look is returned with a wide-eyed stare of his own. Like a fish gasping for water he flaps his jaw pointlessly.

And then she's gone! She just fucks off and leaves him like that!

It's a few seconds before he hesitantly calls after her, "So... We're sleepin' together on the couch tonight, then?..."

In the kitchen Isidor smiles and shakes her head as she pulls out a menu. Their relationship really did dial up a notch. He went from tenderly holding hands to expecting they'll both sleep on the couch together. As tempting as it is to remark on it, she's enjoying letting him stew while she sorts out their food.

Order done, she gets them some beers and brings them in. She lets Harrowheart explore the many channels on the television while they wait. It's relaxing to be able to let someone else choose what goes on, even if his taste is a little questionable. When the doorbell rings she's soon coming back to lay out the small feast. Although the quality is peculiarly good, the spread consists mostly of burgers, chips and onion rings. Harrowheart gets a kebab and a burger with chicken, beef and bacon in it, while Isidor tackles a large beef burger of her own. Try as she might to be refined about it, there just isn't a nice way to eat food like this. Isidor just reties her hair and tries not to spill anything.

Suitably fed, Isidor clears away their rubbish to the kitchen, brings out some chocolates for them, and proceeds to lounge on the couch. At this point she's so sleepy it's hard not to be relaxed, which makes her sprawling all the more natural. She doesn't protest whatever Harrowheart chooses to put on, though she does make a comment about him possibly enjoying a wolf documentary. Soon, however, with the blissful simplicity of television and the drowsiness of a warm home and full belly, Isidor leans against Harrowheart and settles in for the night.

She doesn't notice herself falling asleep. It feels like an age since she's felt safe and comfortable enough to simply drift to sleep. And she is so tired... It turns out that's the easy part. In the world of dreams she doesn't have a friend to hug her, or a television to distract her. Even the freeing effect of the beer doesn't follow her here. Rather the opposite, in fact. She's trapped with pieces of memory, twisted recollections of wretched things. On the couch she starts with distressed mumbling, twisting and turning, trying to escape from her mind in the physical world. It only gets worse and the panic in her dreams is mimicked as she starts to whimper and flail loud, but slow, like she's moving through a swamp. Finally, with a gasp, she jolts upwards, gasping and crying, pushing away anything nearby. That's when she feels the body underneath her and turns to see ice cold lights in a dead face. It's when he eyes drift down to his arms, to the point they end without their hands, that she startles again. Desperately trying to move through her sleepy haze, her head spins frantically this way and that as she moves. She only manages to get from the couch to the floor, closer to the fire where she has to stop to try and breathe through shallow, sporadic gasps.

Edited 2018-01-27 00:31 (UTC)

It's the longest they've ever been this close. This wonderfully, intimately close. His arms around her, her shoulder against his chest. He swears he can feel his heart beat. She fell asleep so easily, and he hated the idea of disturbing her. Sometime in the night he muted the television and unwrapped his wrist bindings, freeing his hands. A few hours in the silent dark pass easier when he can distract himself trying to follow along with a sign language interpreter on the television.

Then Isidor starts to mutter, so he holds her closer. His breath chills her ear when he whispers to hush her, but it doesn't help. Her struggles get stronger and his tight hold only seems to make it worse. Suddenly she sits up and as he quickly jerks away he fearfully whispers, "Isidor!"

She's crying as she beats against his chest in her scramble to escape, but suddenly stops. He watches in slack-jawed worry as she turns to look him in the face, and he can already sense her fear at the sight of him. But then she sees his wrists, and his chest tightens when he knows exactly what she's thinking.

When she escapes he lets her, but the sound of her hitting the floor jars him from his guilty stupor. "I-Isidor..." The concern he wants to feel doesn't come with his words. He drops to his knees to be with her on the ground even as his hands are already gripping her shoulders and pawing at her face, patting her, smoothing out her hair. "Isidor, Isidor," he tries in a whisper. "You're home. It's me. Isidor..."

But he won't get closer. His hands can stay on her, if she'll let them, but he can't come any closer. Not with her looking at him like she did. Not with her so close to the fire.

On the floor Isidor curls up, her knees pulling up to her chest while her arms limply try to cover her face. It takes a few minutes, but as she looks around she starts to realise she's not in her dream anymore. The gentle stroking gradually brushes off the panic surging through her veins. Coming back to her senses, she spots Harrowheart again and curls up tighter with a sob. She can't believe herself. How could she act like around Harrowheart?

She tries to say something, but even she knows it's too difficult to understand through the muffled sobbing. Sniffling, she lifts her head and wipes furiously at her eyes. Composure. She needs to get composure. But it's not working... "I'm sorry," she repeats. "I don't usually-. It was just a dream. I-It felt so real."

Edited 2018-01-27 19:42 (UTC)

She was only dreaming. She was only scared of her dreams. That's what Harrowheart tells himself. It's too difficult otherwise. It's too hard to watch her cry and know – no, think – that some part of her fear is from the sight of him. He wants to keep his distance, but then he hears her sob and he can't. He can't just leave her like that.

He carefully walks toward her on his knees and brings her into his arms when he's close enough. He sits behind her with his legs on either side of her and his head on her shoulder. His hands slip away and use the fireplace tools to stoke the fire, bringing it more strongly to life. She ought to have that warmth to comfort her, no matter how much his gut tells him to keep a distance from it. His hovering palms rub together in front of the fire, then spread apart to soak up some of the heat.

"Tell me what you dreamt," he whispers. "And I'll remind you that it wasn't real."

She's awake now. She's in her home. She's with Harrowheart. She's safe. While part of her struggles to understand this through her adrenaline, the other starts settling into the deep shame of reacting so violently to something that isn't even real.

"It's fine. It was just a dream." And yet her heart is still hammering, her mind still reeling from the sensations of danger, of terror, of failure. Where no clear image remains those feelings merge into a monster in their own right. "I thought I was at home. At the manor, but it was dark and I couldn't see anything properly. I... I was looking for something. I found some of the servants but when I went to ask them for help, they-." Her face contorts at the memory. "They were dead. They were... they were zombies. I didn't want to hurt them, so I ran away. There were hands, and bones, and I was underground. I found Viatorus, b-but..."

She can't help it. She knows it's not real. She knows this is stupid. They're just dreams, stop being a child. But she can't stop the tears. Burying her face in her hands, muffling her voice, she tries to continue. "Th-They were eating him. He was screaming. He wouldn't stop screaming." A pitiful sob. "He asked me to make it stop. He begged. And I... I just stood there."

It takes her a minute to continue. "I-I told him I'd get help. I left him. I left him. B-But then I found you. A-And they were eating you too. You needed help. But..." She goes silent. There's only the shuddering gasps for air and the sharp sniffling. Then she quietly keeps telling him, reluctantly. "Your soul was there too. You were both asking me for help. I couldn't move. I couldn't do anything... But then your soul said he'd help me, and I... I got scared. Because he was moving to you. I tried talking to him but he wouldn't listen. So I... I..." Isidor's whole body tenses as she curls closer in on herself. She doesn't want to tell him, but she should. It's just a dream. It was just a dream. "I had your runeblade suddenly and I... I cut off his other hand. I didn't mean to. I just... I needed to stop him."

The longer Isidor talks the less confidence Harrowheart has that this was just a dream. It wasn't real, of course, but that's more than the average dream. Are most nightmares that brutal? That evil? He recalls what it was like to be afraid to sleep, but it's been so long since he dreamt.

He regrets asking. He really does. Not because he regrets knowing, but because he's suddenly so acutely aware of the fact that he can't help her through this at all. What does he say? What does he do? Does Isidor have to suffer alone through this?

Viatorus might be right above them. He could solve this. He could fix this right up, Harrow knows he could. But she already said...

He sighs a frigid breath from his nostrils and licks his lips. Isidor...

"It's just dreams," he whispers. "Just fake things you're scared of runnin' through your mind. Viatorus is just fine up in his room, my soul's safe in my runeblades – which are mine again, and my body's safe right here."

One of his warmed hands finds hers and he tries to wedge his fingers between hers for a tight squeeze. "And all of that's because of you. You're brave and smart and ornery, and you always fix everything. Anything less than that's just... Make-believe. Just bad dreams."

His other hand arrives bringing throw pillows and then a blanket from the couch. He tries to encourage Isidor to lie down rather than sit as she is, but whatever she does he's keeping his arms around her. A moment passes in silence, and while he isn't speaking he forgets to breathe. A long breath in precedes a quiet question.

"Did my soul really only have one hand?"

The more awake she becomes the more the heated adrenaline starts to cool in her veins. Harrowheart's cold presence only cools her further and a few small shivers run through her despite the meagre attempts of the low fire to warm her. She focuses on Harrowheart's voice. They're safe. They're all safe. She can feel Harrowheart right behind her, but her eyes drift to his arms and she has to try not to shift uncomfortably. Dead or not, he's still alive, strange as that may be. He's alive. Safe.

It's just as well that he can't see her face when he goes on to compliment her. She doesn't feel like any of those things right now. The thought of letting him down knots tightly in her stomach. With her focus on that, she doesn't resist lying down. She pulls her hair over her shoulder to keep it out of Harrowheart's face and rests one hand under her cheek, the other on his arm.

She's so lost in her own thoughts that his question catches her completely off guard. For a moment she considers brushing it off, avoiding answering… but she knows her reluctance is purely selfish. She doesn't want to be the bearer of bad news, and it feels like everything about that week was bad.

"Yes."

His left hand floats up until it's just in his line of vision. He flexes his fingers and turns it around to look at his palm, then once more at the back. He knows exactly which hand his soul was missing.

In a quiet voice he says, "So I got one hand's worth of a soul in me." Hmm. He's honestly unsure of what to do with this information. Quantifying how much or how little of his soul remains in tact is somehow different from simply knowing it's pieces.

The hand he had been observing rubs at Isidor's shoulder as he thinks it all through. For quite some time he's silent.

Eventually he whispers, "If it's enough of a soul to care about you and to be happy that you care about me, too, then it's enough."

He sits up slightly, careful as he can be not to disturb her position. "But we shouldn't talk about souls before you go back to sleep. You don't need sad shit. You need a distraction. Here –"

He wiggles out from under the blanket, and even though she's sure to follow him soon he tucks it around her to keep her warm. The room is well-enough lit by the ambient glow of the television and the embers of the fire and he has no trouble finding his way to her impressive alcohol cabinets. He stands with his arms crossed while his floating hands remove bottles with the most interesting shapes and colors.

His glowing eyes swivel her way and in the dim light he smiles. "An old man had a young wife, but he was havin' trouble pleasin' her in bed. He went to his elf friend, who, bein' old and wise, was bound to have the best advice on love-makin'."

He gathers up the bottles he's set aside and takes them to the nearest table, where he pops the top off one amber drink and sniffs it. Nice!

"So the elf says, 'What you need to do is hire a strappin' young man to wave a towel over you while you make love to your wife.' So the old man follows the elf's advice and hires the most handsome young man he can find."

Harrowheart returns to the liquor cabinet to choose glasses, and when he sits down at the table once more immediately gets to pouring two drinks.

"That night the old man made love to his wife while the young man waved the towel, but the wife wasn't pleased. Frustrated, the old man went back to his elf friend and said 'It didn't work! My wife wasn't pleased!' The elf nodded and said, 'All right then, try this: Have the young man make love to your wife and you wave the towel over her.' So the old man took the elf's advice again. That night the young man made love to his wife while the old man waved the towel over them. The woman hooted and hollered and had the best sex of her life! The old man grins, triumphant, and says –"

Harrow grabs his shot glass and knocks back whatever amber liquid he'd poured in there, coughs, laughs, and when the glass tinks against the table he shouts, "Schmuck! THAT'S how you wave a towel!"

It's not even a question, but when he says that what he has is enough if it makes them happy she doesn't stop to think about replying. "It is."

Whether or not he meant to disturb her, she shuffles to sit up when he gets to his feet. Wrapping the blanket tighter around her shoulders, she puts her back to the fire and leans against the couch while she watches and listens.

At first she raises an eyebrow at him rooting through her drinks, but the other soon joins it in surprise at his choice of story. Bringing out alcohol and talking about sex. Where is this going, Harrowheart...?

It might be the light-heartedness of it all, the stupidity of the story, or the flair with which he knocks back the drink and enthusiastically delivers the punchline. Whatever it is, Isidor laughs before she can think to stop herself. She's too tired to hide it, or stop it. So it takes a minute of laughter before she can say anything.

"Harrowheart!" What can she say? "I didn't know you liked dirty jokes!" A little more awake and a little more aware of herself, she quirks a smile at him. "Where did you hear that one?"

She laughed! He succeeded! The warmth that fills him is almost like living again. He grins so proudly as he begins to pour himself another drink. "Joke? Who said it was a joke? That old man who couldn't bang was my brother Lawrence!" He winks before he laughs again. He downs his drink and once more coughs. This stuff is stronger than he expected!

"Course I like dirty jokes! Would I be a soldier if I didn't? What I didn't know is that you like 'em too! So what's it gonna be then? You hear another one from me, or you tell your own?"

One of his hands scoops up Isidor's shot and floats it her way. It hovers near her face so that she can't help but notice it's there. Would it be 'dirty jokes and shots' hour without the shots?...

She shouldn't laugh at that low blow at Lawrence, but... it's a low blow at Lawrence, of course she's going to laugh. Besides, Harrowheart said it, not her. She's allowed to laugh at that.

Harrowheart's prompt, however, has her hesitating. The drink less so. She takes it to stop him from holding so close to her face, considers it, and then knocks it back. She pulls a face, huffs out a sharp breath and then sets the glass down.

"I..." Cough. "I don't really know any. People don't tell dirty jokes around me. They either think they can't because I'm a proper lady, or because they're worried I'll make them regret it."

Harrow begins to pour her another shot, smiling all the while as she explains her sad, dirty-jokeless life. He straightens up and his smirk turns smugly proud.

"That just means I get to teach you some. Here, I got one you can tell you Tia."

He clears his throat before he begins. "A Westfall farmer man went to Stormwind to sell his goods. While he was there he stopped at a tavern. A local woman saw his rugged look and country dress and asked, 'Say, mister, are you a real farmhand?' The man shrugged a shoulder and said, 'Well, I've lived my whole life on a farm. I spend my days mendin' fences, tendin' cattle, and tillin' crops. I'd say that makes me a real farmhand.'"

"The Stormwind woman nodded and pointed to herself. She said, 'Me, I'm a lesbian. I spend my whole day thinking about women. No matter what I do, they're always on my mind. When I lie down by a creek or stare up at the stars or read novels, everything seems to make me think of being with women!'"

"The farmhand nodded and the lesbian went her way. Another Stormwind local sat down near him and said, 'Gee, Mister, are you a real farhmand?' To which the man replied, 'I always thought I was, but I just found out I'm a lesbian.'"

Fool that he is Harrowheart chuckles at his own joke. "Maybe not dirty, but probably not the sorta story your parents would appreciate."

As he pops open another bottle of a new alcohol he says, "Tell me a joke that would make a Durant laugh."

Again Isidor raises an eyebrow, but this time she's already taking the drink when it's offered. She waits and considers her glass, idly wondering if she remembers which drink this is and why she chose it, while she listens to Harrowheart's story.

This time his story gets a smirk that's almost a snort of laughter. "I think Tia would like it though. I'll have to tell it to her sometime."

She downs the drink, coughs a couple of times and sets the glass down. It's well timed to help her deal with Harrowheart's request. "A joke that would make a Durant laugh?" Her eyes slide off into the distance as she tries to recall the last time she saw someone in her family laugh, other than Viatorus. "Um... Usually we laugh at one liners. Come-backs and witty remarks..."

Ah, but then she remembers something. Her eyes turn back to Harrowheart. "Wait, I think I remember one Oraskis told an age ago. Right." She clears her throat and folds her hands. "Once there was a lord who came to the most powerful sorcerer in the country and said, 'Please help me. There is a witch in my lands and she is turning all the young men into frogs and all the young women into goats. I will give you all the gold I have to get rid of her.'

The sorcerer shook his head and said, 'Your gold is not enough.'

Distraught, the lord turned to the lord of the eastern lands for help. Both of them went to the sorcerer and the lord of the east said, 'Please help. There is a witch in his lands and she is drying up the rivers and emptying the wine cellars, and she is sure to come to my lands next! I will give you all the gems and jewels I own to get rid of her.'

Again the sorcerer shook his head and said, 'His gold and your gems are not enough.'

Frantic, they turned to the lord of the western lands for help. He agreed, but he was an older, harder lord. He stood in front of the sorcerer and said, 'You have been offered gold and gems to help get rid of this witch and still you do nothing. I order you to get rid of her or I will send my entire army to get rid of you! My siege engines will tear down your tower, my wolves will tear apart your horse, and my assassins will make sure you are dead!'

The sorcerer was quiet for a moment and then replied, 'You can barter all you like. You can offer me all the gold and gems in the entire world. You can threaten me with your mighty armies. But I'm still more afraid of facing my wife!'"

Harrowheart holds off on drinking while Isidor speaks. She's got his full attention, and it shows in the way leans closer and closer through the failures of the story. Can he predict the punchline? He tries, but he fails. When it finally concludes he tosses his head back and brays a long, loud, "HAAAAA!"

His howl dies down to a chuckle and a sparkle in his eye, and he takes another shot. Whew! Whatever that was, he liked it! He tips his empty glass Isidor's way.

"Ain't that just an Oraskis story? You know, I saw him tryin' to avoid his wife at Viatorus' engagement. Poor guy. Guess we know where Poenia gets it from though."

Harrow leans back and stares at the ceiling as he thinks of another. "Wish I had a good joke about rich people to rile you up, but I don't think I do... So how about... How about one more dirty one? Then we can knock back a few more shots til you're tired and get you back to sleep. I've been told you got some kinda job durin' the day?"

He scratches at his side burn for a moment, then turns his attention to Isidor and grins. "Got one. Okay. So, a man and his wife ran off into the woods in the black of the night. They were both randy, and even though they couldn't see each other they decided to get physical in the dark. After a little while the man comes up for air and says, 'Damn, I wish I had a flashlight!' And the woman says, 'Me too. For the past ten minutes you've been eatin' grass!'"

Is it an Oraskis story? The seer does like to indulge in marital jokes quite a lot. Isidor shrugs and nods. "I guess that's why he likes to tell it."

Harrowheart reminds her about work and her lips thin. Her mind tries to recall her schedule out of habit, but it's too fuzzy. Not that it matters. If she can survive the week in Cyrodiil she can survive anything. If some gets offended by something she does, they can get over it. With that in mind she turns her attention back to Harrowheart's storytelling.

At the punchline Isidor covers her face with her hands and groans, but when she pulls her hands down she reveals a smile that she just can't stifle. She slides over her glass for him to fill. "That is dirty. You could knock out a few of my relatives with that. I'm pretty sure my grandaunt would faint."

For a second there he's wondered if he's gone too far, but when her hands come away and she's smiling his brief worry turns to a proud grin. He's done it again! Two smiles in one otherwise traumatic night! He's all too happy to fill that glass for her.

"Faint? Shoot, sounds like your granduncle don't show her enough of a good time."

The shots and the jokes keep coming, but it's only a few more drinks before Harrowheart begins to stumble laughingly over his own stories. He forgets a punchline only to remember it at the end of the next joke. Eventually he has to recognize that he's blazed past 'tipsy' directly into 'smashed.' Lying on the couch, he encourages Isidor to settle in with him and get to sleep. The words are hardly out of his mouth before he takes his own advice.

Turns out when you're dead, you sleep... Well, like the dead. He doesn't move, doesn't breathe. He's total dead weight holding her around the middle, which might be something of a challenge by the time she wakes up and has to wiggle out of his grip.

If she tries to wake him, she'll find it's pointless. He's much less asleep than unconscious. She has a few minutes to either settle in or go about her day before he raises his arms to rub at his face, utterly forgetting that his hands aren't attached. He smears his wrists across his eyes, staining them vaguely rusty before he realizes his mistake.

He sits up in a daze and looks around. "Izzadorrrrruh," he groans. "Why'd you let me get druuuunk..."

The more they drink, the more they laugh, the further back she pushes all thoughts of caves and death. She's still tired, though, which means that aside for the odd contribution of a joke or a quick witted comment, Isidor ends up simply smiling warmly at Harrowheart for most of the night while he chats away. Eventually though, they both have to turn their thoughts towards sleep.

Unfortunately for Isidor her past self was as organised and practical as ever. The dawn hasn't quite cracked when, somewhere, an alarm goes off. Unlike Harrowheart, Isidor does not sleep heavily enough to block out the irritation of an early alarm. Moving to turn it off, however, is not as easy as she initially expects. With a mixture of wriggling, pushing and flailing, she gets out of Harrowheart's grip, landing on the floor with a slight thud. Sitting on the cold ground with a sore head, a sore backside, and an alarm still screaming at her from somewhere… Isidor realises that today is going to make her pay for last night's recklessness.

By the time Harrowheart stirs she's showered, clothed in a smart business suit, and made herself more or less presentable. Her clothes, hair and make-up are all on point, but her expression and the way she moves as she gathers her things give away how bad she's feeling. She shushes Harrowheart as soon as he speaks, waving a hand at him.

"Shhh, the aspirin hasn't kicked in yet." She heads to the kitchen and returns with two glasses of water. One she sets down in front of Harrowheart, along with a small assortment of foil wrapped tablets. "I don't know if they even help you, but…"

She barely stops before she continues her rushing back and forth. In bare feet, of course. Right now the sound of heels on her floor would almost certainly crack her head open.

Harrowheart blinks hard at the sight of Isidor already dressed. He mumbles, "How long have you been awake, and how do you look so good?..." But before he gets an answer, he gets... Pills? He pops the packaging and drops a handful of the pills into his hand, considers them, pops them in his mouth, and crunches down. The bitter powder inside coats his tongue and he gags, then falls back on the couch coughing. His floating hand hurries to pour some of that water into his mouth to cleanse his palate.

After a final hack he blinks again and half-heartedly laughs. "Yeah, that woke me up. Shoot..."

He rises, and like Isidor shuffles quietly through the apartment. He heads for the kitchen muttering something about how he meant to wake up before her. And then, louder, "Breakfast. Gotta make you breakfast." Something-something "sleep with a lady," something-something "make her breakfast." That's when he opens her fridge and remembers – Oh, right. They had to order out because she had no food.

Okay, time to follow her around watching her morning ritual, then. Maybe he'll learn a thing or two about being a CEO? He gets to tying up his wrists as he follows her and as he does asks, "What do you do, anyway? At your job, I mean?"

Whatever Harrowheart says to her in his sleepy daze is missed as she rushes back and forth. The coffee maker is soon switched on and working while she puts herself together.

Isidor hastens to her bedroom to retrieve her earrings, which she puts on as she goes to her study to look over an email open on her laptop. Her study has muted golden wallpaper on one wall to warm up the black, white and golds that dominate her home. Behind her desk she's flanked by two glass cabinets with ornaments that include an exotic looking knife, a reptilian skull, a colourful headdress, and a box with a beetle on top and hieroglyphs all around it. On the opposite wall a bookcase holds an impressive library while the doors seem to have no visible handles.

She looks at Harrowheart to make sure his question is serious and honestly interested before she looks back to her laptop and clicks onto another email. "I'm a branch manager for one of the family companies. We specialise in security solutions, but we also provide emergency medical or transport services for our clients." She straightens and looks at him again. "I make the big decisions, keep everything running smoothly, and take the fall if anything goes wrong."

Walking past him to collect some papers she adds, "I don't let anything go wrong."

Isidor enters her bedroom and Harrowheart very much does not. He's not about to be obliterated by the strength of 20 wards. Or was it 100? Fortunately she's out and powerwalking through the apartment in record time, and he can take up his baby duck routine once more.

Under normal circumstances he might stop and appreciate the decor of the study, but right now he's trying his hardest to figure out what a 'branch manager' is. Security solutions makes enough sense, fortunately. She's off on her hurrying way and he mutters, "Course not," as she passes. Then he calls after her, "You ever cheat and use magic wards for security?"

He remains in the office after she's gone, because he's come to accept that he can't keep up with her. Instead he considers the relics in the glass cabinet. "Hey, this ain't a dragon skull, is it? It's some kinda baby crocolisk, right?"

She waits until she's back in the room to answer him. Normally calling to each other would be a good way to save some time, but this time she's thankful for what quiet she can get.

"No. No magic if there's no magic," she tells him as she flicks through a couple of files. "Cleanup operations are the worst. Nobody wants to have to make sure magic hasn't gotten out into the general populace..."

She looks up when he talks about a crocodile (she assumes). Her eyes flick to the skull and she smiles. "A dragon of a sort. It's a Komodo dragon. There's nothing mythical about it, but..." She shrugs. "I kind of like that it doesn't have to be magical to be deadly, to be feared." Moving a few papers again she adds, "It's a bit like we've both earned the right to be called dragons."

Komodo dragon. Not something he's ever heard of. He listens as she explains, but in the end he's not sure he's any more enlightened about the lizard. About Isidor, though, maybe. She takes her reputation and self-image so seriously. He stares at the skull a while before her movements catch his attention and take him away from his thoughts. He smiles at her sentiment.

"I like that you like bein' feared. And one of these days you're gonna like bein' deadly, too. You'll get used to it, anyway. Shoot, maybe next time you've gotta be deadly you'll bring that big ol' dagger along." He taps the glass where the strange knife rests in the cabinet.

Edited 2018-02-09 05:08 (UTC)

Her eyes roll at him and she shakes her head, stuffing the last of the papers into her bag. "I don't like being feared, Harrowheart. I like being respected, and not needing to be deadly."

Now that that's all packed up, she turns on the spot, scanning around for anything else. It looks like everything she needs is in her bag. "Right. I think that's everything." She grabs her bag and brings it through to the living room, she disappears into her room for a moment but soon returns, slipping on a pair of low heels while she holds her jacket. "I need to go. I've got a meeting at half nine and I need to brief a couple of the managers before then, so I can't stay."

Once her jacket is on she heads to the door and gives the apartment one final glance before she turns her attention to Harrowheart. "You can stay as long as you want. Just don't break anything, or scare anyone, and don't you dare go into my room." She nods as if reassuring herself that's all her notes, and then turns to the door. "I'll talk to you later."

With that Isidor hurries out of her apartment and head off, hoping her head will stop aching once she gets into the office.

Here Because of You (For Isidor)

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