Part 37 - Home

They stepped onto the docks, Able relieved to finally be off of a boat. He'd not slept well even with the deacons.. Distractions. He made a mental note and buttons his dress shirt higher than he usually would.

Able: -Quietly, to Virgil.- Lower, next time. A bit of a pain to hide. Able sighs, quickly moving towards the end of the dock. The deacon steps onto the dock, buttoning up their collar up all the way.

Virgil: -To Able.- Invest in a priest's collar.

They head along the pier, following behind Able.

Virgil: Come now, though; you're on solid land now. Able: I don't need a stiff neck along with everything else.

Able relaxes visibly as he steps on proper ground.

Able: A small relief, that. The deacon follows along Able.

Virgil: You know, I've heard stories about the shore of London washing away into the zee; the waves were so great that the land round the hill suddenly sloughed off into the oce. . .hm.

The deacon lifted their gaze, interrupted by a distant screeching.

Virgil: -Squinting.- . . .is that. . ?

Ahead, a swash of floral orange and patterned maroon is rushing down the street, heading towards the port Able and Virgil are standing in; it's the bandaged man. He's dressed in a paisley-patterned smoking suit, the loose ends of bandages streaking behind them.

Around him, there are papers being scattered about, and the persons in the streets part in disgust and fear as he screams.

The Bandaged: -Screaming; distant, and mostly incomprehensible.- Ah' figured i'h out! Fiend! Vilhain!

Virgil: -Quietly; to Able.- . . .Able, did you tell the bandaged man where you went?

Able's face scrunches up listening to the deacon talk of the ocean eroding the land. He was relieved when Virgil stopped, and it was then replaced by another anxiety.

Able: Ah. No. You may want to er... move..

Thomas steps off of the dock, straightening his suit before watching the two in the distance. Thomas had needed to speak with the captain, and perhaps greet some new crew, a common occurrence as crew often came and go. He would greet Able soon enough, though, he decided to stay back until the bandaged man confronts them. The bandaged man stumbles along the street, slowly advancing on the pair. In one hand, he holds a bundle of papers, their grip so loose that the street behind him is covered in loose documents.

In the other hand, he's holding a. . .cross made of solid lead, their entire body skewed towards the right as he runs along. The bandaged man advances on the pair, almost near them.

Virgil: -Quietly.- I don't think he has the coordination to walk, nevermind .

The Bandaged: -Slurring; venomous.- You!

The bandaged man nears; there is the smell of wine surrounding them, their clothing stained in the brownish-purple hues of spilled spirits.

The Bandaged: You'gh infernal devil! You ki'hnapper! You'h terribl-

The bandaged man stumbles on a stray cobblestone, their torso hilarious buckling back as the heavy lead cross in their other hand pulls their upper body back. The bandaged man rights themselves, their arm trembling laboriously as they lift the lead cross up. They speak loudly, but their voice sounds like they're dying, what with the way their chest is heaving.

The Bandaged: -Seething; loud, but wheezy.- You'h. . .hhh. . .are a tricky. . .sneaky. . .hhhhf, awful! . .hhh. . .terrible, bad, bad, bad devil of a man! Why. . !

Virgil: . . .the vernacular on crosses is largely metaphorical; you know that, rig-?

The bandaged man screeches, chucking the lead cross at the pair.

The Bandaged: -Loudly.- You won't deceive me with your words!

. . .the lead cross nails Virgil in the cheek; if one wasn't looking properly, it'd look like his head got twisted in place.

Virgil: -Muffled.- Gah!

The head of the wax husk is twisted a bit, the neck warped and bunched up like twisted fabric. One of the eyes is hollow, apparently knocked out of alignment; and, on the deacon's cheek, there is a small cut, which they quickly cover with their palm.

Virgil: -Hissing; buzzing quietly.- . . .Able, distract him for a moment, if you'd please. Thomas winces watching the scene play out, but starts making his way over, still needing to get those beasts out of his home and back with Able. Meanwhile Able is gripping the bandaged man's arm tightly, pulling him away from Virgil.

Able: Excuse me, the hell are you doing assaulting a deacon? Are you trying to be exiled?

Able speaks through gritted teeth, an anger washing over him. He placed a lot of that anger into the death grip he had the bandaged man in, which did not look comfortable. The deacon is turning away from Able and the bandaged man, adjusting their head; their hands work their wax neck, twisting it back into place and rubbing over small cracks that form in the wax as it twists back.

The Bandaged: -Wheezing.- Oy, I jus. . .hhh. . .I. . .just saved your life! . .ye'h went to the Iron Republic, didn't ye? For what nefarious purpose! For. . .

The bandaged man lets out an airy wheeze, before they suddenly go limp in Able's grip; they collapse, winded and passed out from the run they took towards the dock. Meanwhile, the deacon turns towards Able, adjusting their head back to a normal orientation.

Virgil: -Quietly; curt.- Eye. Is it in good alignment?

The eye socket on the right side looks a little lower than usual, and the eyelids look a little spread apart from the cross pulling on the husk through its flight. Virgil is adjusting the small cut on their cheek, pinching it closed and smoothing the wax out.

Able drops the bandaged man without much thought. He looks over at Virgil and squints.

Able: A little more up. You look too wide eyed too.

Thomas furrows his brows, moving to the side of Able, placing his hand on his shoulder. He noted the marks, but there was something more pressing.

Able: Mh? Oh. Why are all of you here.

Thomas: I have business. Speaking of you didn't tell me you were going to the Iron Republic.

Able: I have no intention of being your smuggler.

Thomas: You-!

Thomas glances over at Virgil briefly.

Thomas: Deacon.

He turns his attention back to Able.

Thomas: You need to think bigger picture, all the money we could have made, and you would have only had to bring back a few things.

Able: No thank you. The deacon quickly adjusts their face, sliding and pinching the wax so the socket fits to their eye better.

Virgil: -Lowering their hands; to Thomas.- Thomas, I thought you knew better than to ask an honest man to be your accomplice.

Virgil: -Adjusting their high collar.- Furthermore, I will not have a record of admitting smugglers into Hell's territory. Thomas raises an eyebrow, moving his gaze back towards the deacon. He looks him up and down and then looks at Able. He grins widely.

Thomas: An honest man, mh?

Thomas moves his hands off Able, holding them up in faux defense.

Thomas: Of course deacon.

Able looks confused as Thomas backs up.

Thomas: Ah, you would be too preoccupied anyhow, mh?

Able is hoisting up the bandaged man off of the ground, and over his shoulder.

Able: You say that as if I'd even agree. The deacon looks at Thomas, their gaze unimpressed.

Virgil: Of course Able is an honest man. Certainly, he doesn't disguise his opinions; you wouldn't believe how vocal he was on the taste of scintillack.

Virgil: . . .he hated it. Thomas furrows his brows looking at Able who freezes.

Thomas: You went to the Iron Republic got Scintillack and did not bring me so much as a tin??

Able blinks, even more confused.

Able: Why would you want it, it's disgusting?

Thomas: Dear me you are going to kill me.