abraxaslogs | [ OPEN ] the fate of the game is moving my way.

Ronan waits, as he always does, for the initial flurry of activity to settle. He remembers how disorienting the summoning can be, and though he had been more grateful than most to wake up in a new world, he knows he would have hated an ambush of well-wishers.

Following Ambrose's team from a short distance, he stays out of the way while he watches the mages escort the new arrivals from their rooms, but he's certainly not hiding. It wouldn't be wrong to assume he's overseeing the process, if not in an official capacity. His expression is the kind of combined boredom and irritation that suggests this is an assigned task rather than something he's doing for fun.

He's posted outside the dormitories until the call to dinner, yet he's clearly not one of the guards, dressed as he is in dark brocades and sable furs, without a sword at his side. Whenever it is that Hendrik finally opens the door, there he is, still waiting. "Howdy," he greets drolly, plucking out his AirPods and pocketing them swiftly. "Can I bother you for a second?"

Between the everyday duties and distractions each of them is necessarily caught up in, it's some time before Rhy can make good on his promise to visit Ronan in his room again. He's seen glimpses of the other man over the last couple of days, though they always kept missing each other somehow, and Rhy is only barely above sprinting down the hallway because he saw a flash of Ronan's coat disappearing around a corner.

In the meantime, he's been spending his days practicing diligently, now that the magic has actually started responding to him. He offers his services at the infirmary -- though it's less an offer and more an informal apprenticeship when one of the healers finally allows him to help out. He reads in the gardens, trying to pick up as much about Thornean culture and history as he can. Occasionally, he trains in the yard, just to keep himself moving, though all swordsmanship Rhy knows is ceremonial at best. Bored of the castle, he's also gone out to the city below a few times, mingling with the locals, realizing he doesn't... have any money of his own. A problem for later. (Rhy's never worked a day in his life.)

Eventually, the stars align. It's only been a handful of days, but to Rhy, it feels like weeks since he spent that pleasant morning in Ronan's bed. They meet briefly at breakfast, and when Rhy inquires if Ronan will be free to share a drink in the afternoon, he gets a response that makes his heart sing.

Rhy shows up with a full bottle of brandy, alongside the customary bottle of wine. He can be very charming when he wants to be, and someone in the kitchen apparently agrees.

If he had a single functioning brain cell, Ronan might've thought twice about allowing Rhy back into his orbit. He's more or less remedied the matter with Kylo, but the shadow of a bruise fading around his throat is a daily reminder of his transgression. Just because the score is settled doesn't mean he's actually been forgiven, and risking another misstep is downright stupid.

But Ronan is an idiot, after all, greeting Rhy with a crooked little smile as he opens the door. He's suffering from the kind of butterflies he associates with his high school years, nerves and excitement in equal parts. He's decidedly not charming, only unnaturally beautiful, so all he's got to say is a bashful, "Hey."

It is not quite a cacophony to the senses, but the sequence of events following waking up is disorienting, to say the least. Were he less stable on his feet, Hendrik could see himself stumbling while being ushered along by the mages who "greeted" him and apparently others to this new land.

He trusts little of the situation. How could he think otherwise? Ripped from his devastated kingdom's last bastion, anything and everything carries an air of distrust. Making matters worse is this matter of his magic and seemingly being sapped by this entire process. It leaves him restless, pacing his assigned room despite how it does little for his already-tapped strength. Should he take his chances and leave in this state? These mages have said they mean no harm, and yet they remained the ones with power over him.

Ultimately, he decides it is better than staring at the same four walls in his restless state. He pulls the door open with little issue, promptly taking note of a young man standing just outside. Eyes experienced with sizing up knights and monsters narrow faintly in question, as he is not set at ease by his casual manner of speech. The young man is taller than a good number who used to be under his command.

"You are...?" he begins, momentarily averting his eyes to note there is no one else positioned by the doorway. One hand remains on the door handle, clenched as if to force the door shut, as he notes the stranger's choice of clothing. "You are not one of the mages."

"Ronan Lynch." This is where someone might ordinarily offer a handshake, but Ronan does not. "I'm one of the Summoned, like you."

He can tell he's being assessed and likely judged as untrustworthy. There's nothing new about that. Until he came to this place, most people looked at Ronan and saw nothing more than a villain. He never attempted to correct that assumption and he's not starting now. He doesn't care whether Hendrik likes him or trusts him. This is just one errand out of many he'll be running today.

Ronan nods toward the doorway, which Hendrik seems reluctant to leave. "That's not a prison cell. You're allowed to come out. You heading to dinner? We can walk and talk."

Cute.

"Hello," Rhy returns with amused politeness, fighting a smirk of his own.

He sweeps in as soon as Ronan steps aside to let him, his wine-red half cloak billowing behind him. Since he'd figured out how to pester the various castle staff for clothing, Rhy's acquired a decent collection -- not nearly as lavish or tailored as he's used to, but it'll do. He often wears reds and golds, Arnesian colors, with splashes of whites or blacks, but even if he isn't wearing his signature colors, Rhy hates being dressed blandly. No all black for him, thanks.

Once the drinks are set down, Rhy turns with a flourish, immediately reaching out to Ronan meaning to grab him by the waist and pull him close.

"You look even more splendid than you did this morning. Tell me: how have you managed to grow more beautiful in a mere handful of hours?"

"Absence something something fonder or whatever," Ronan replies wryly, though his cheeks grow several shades pinker. He coils his arms around Rhy and draws him close, starved for contact after all those days apart. Something in Ronan's heart feels more settled with Rhy pressed up close to his chest, proximity making all the difference between contentment and the lack of it.

As for beauty, Ronan is so consistently shocked by Rhy's that it feels like he grows more beautiful minute by minute. But he can't think of any way to say so without sounding corny as hell, so he simply takes Rhy by the chin and kisses him. It's a kiss that's naked in its longing, slow and savoring after his days of fasting, yet it's not nearly enough to sate his appetite.

He has to take small portions today. Even denying himself satisfaction might not be good enough. Elsewhere in the castle, he knows, Kylo can feel the desire radiating from him. Kylo also knows, without a doubt, the target of that desire. Ronan has to be careful not to fall victim to Rhy's thrall again and give himself away without permission.

So the kiss is shorter than he wants it to be. When it breaks, he touches his forehead to Rhy's and warns, "Just drinks today. For real."

Coming from a hierarchy of knights and nobles, with manners more aligned with the former than the latter, the seemingly respectful distance and lack of touch do not strike Hendrik as odd. There were a number of days where he would go without a friendly interaction at all, even with the attendants assisting him with his armor both day and night.

The introduction cannot go unanswered, though. "Hendrik." No surname. No title that would mean anything here.

It is the mention of a connection that has him slowly easing out of his initial wariness. There was brief mention of others having arrived through the same process, and the term "Summoned" had been used when introducing the rooming situation. With a grimace at his own clenched fist, he releases the door handle and passes the doorway into the corridor.

"The mages mentioned a dining hall. That is where we are to go now?" There did seem to be a bustle of others heading in that direction, at least. He looks to Ronan for a moment, trying to decide whether or not to ask something or make a remark before starting to walk. He doesn't recognize his own footsteps, wearing sandals that feel too flimsy for any of the work he is used to doing on a daily basis.

"I still find all of this rather hard to believe. Being summoned to another world to deal with some worldly peril."

Rhy laughs, low and easy, letting Ronan gather him up against his chest and sliding his arms to lock his fingers around the small of Ronan's back as they kiss. It is slow and sensual, tasting of longing and lust, and Rhy cannot be blamed for looking a little taken aback when they part and Ronan insists on just drinks.

He draws away slightly, mostly just to be able to see Ronan without having to look up too far. The faintest crease has appeared between Rhy's shapely brows.

"If something the matter?"

"There's something I should've told you."

Maybe Rhy can already guess. Part of it, at least. Ronan cups his cheek, watching the worry make its way across those beautiful features, doing his best to soothe them away with a caress.

"It's... a lot. You might wanna sit down and crack open a bottle first."

Rhy sighs. "Very well."

He doesn't have to be convinced to drink. He'd only hoped the occasion and the atmosphere of said drinking would be happier this time.

As it seems they'll need something stronger than the wine, Rhy goes for the brandy, popping open the bottle. Ronan had provided cups last time; this time, Rhy doesn't bother. He just sits on the edge of the bed and drinks, the sharpness of the strong liquor hitting his tongue too sobering to start.

His free hand waves vaguely at Ronan, a habitual sort of gesture, a wordless go on, then.

In truth, he doesn't know what Ronan is about to say. Best to get it out in the open before his imagination takes the self-doubt and runs with it.

"The dining hall is usually where people go to dine."

Ronan may be dressed like a noble, but he has very few manners of any kind. He's got the posture of a street brawler and the indolent drawl of a farmer, yet almost everyone they pass greets him with a smile or a bow of their head. Venerable, they murmur in his direction, but Ronan's focus is fixed on Hendrik and he doesn't bother to acknowledge the others.

"So it's your first time being summoned to save a world?" he asks wryly. "What would be easier to believe? That you hit your head and this is all a bad dream? You thinking you'll wake up in Kansas any minute now?"

Ronan doesn't sit, his body itching to move and work out some of his nerves while he struggles to figure out just how to go about explaining everything. He fidgets with his leather bracelets and looks anywhere other than Rhy while he talks, because if starts to see distress halfway through a sentence, he might abort the entire mission.

"Kylo's not just some roommate I'm hooking up with," he begins, hot shame already twisting itself up in his gut. "He's not even my boyfriend. He's..."

This is one of those things that's going to get lost in translation, isn't it? Rhy probably grew up with a whole different set of myths and folktales. He'll probably get just as lost as he was when Ronan brought up his Catholic guilt.

"You ever heard of a deal with the Devil? Mephistopheles? Rumpelstiltskin?"

The dry comments remind Hendrik of Jasper's brand of humor in those moments he deigned allow him hear them, so he takes no offense to Ronan's words. Instead, he finds his attention being stolen away in bits in pieces by the passersby, whose behaviors are quite unlike the mages' while still being polite.

It seems the young man who has decided to speak to him has something of a reputation already. More than the politeness offered by those who had participated in the summoning.

"I am unsure whether or not this would be what I consider a bad dream." A strange dream, but his world is more of a nightmare as it is, with Yggdrasil fallen from the sky. "Is this a regular occurrence? Are there many others? The mages seemed ... quite prepared to offer room and board."

Kylo. Rhy's shoulders tense. Is that the issue? Perhaps Ronan promised himself to Kylo and then failed to tell Rhy that they were-- well, clearly not exclusive, considering the baths, but perhaps Kylo preferred to be involved.

Before he can ask, already trying to think of ways to make this work, Ronan continues. And derails Rhy's thoughts completely with... utter nonsense.

Rhy stares at him blankly.

"I've heard of a devil. Not the rest."

"Whatever," Ronan sighs, heaving a big shrug. "It doesn't matter. I guess what I'm getting at is..."

Despite his best efforts, his gaze creeps back to Rhy. This is going to sound bad. How could it not? He doesn't have his father's talent for weaving stories of horror into poetry. He doesn't know any way to say it other than just saying it.

"Kylo made a pact with me. He's my master."

At least Rhy doesn't exactly look distressed-- mostly just subtly confused, uncertain. His usually expressive face has shuttered, his grip on the bottle tight where he rests it on his knee.

"I do not follow."

He says this gently, almost apologetically, trying not to let the tension bleed through to his tone.

"What kind of pact?"

Ronan gestures a little abracadabra jazzhands when he answers, "Magic."

Given Rhy's confusion, he's thinking he should have just skipped this whole part. Maybe he could've gotten away with making it sound like a BDSM thing. But it's starting to feel important, considering how much he really likes Rhy, that the truth is understood as best it can be.

"I serve him," Ronan continues, finally taking a seat beside Rhy. "I belong to him. Like a really sexy houseplant that gives him stuff."

Magic, Ronan says, as if it explains everything. It only adds more questions.

Rhy's lips press together, the furrow between his brows growing deeper. He understands the urge to be flippant but doesn't laugh, stuck in that thoughtful, concerned expression as Ronan joins him on the edge of the bed. Rhy hands him the bottle.

"Did you choose to serve him?"

"There's a summoning every month," Ronan answers. "The first successful one was eight months ago. That's when I showed up."

It feels like years. A whole lifetime. So little of him belongs to the world he came from, now.

"There used to be about fifty of us. Most of them left. Now, with the new batch... Maybe twenty? I haven't actually gone and gotten a headcount of the newest ones."

Ronan takes a swig from the bottle and immediately passes it back. Rhy needs it more than he does. The concern on his face is too much to bear and Ronan would really love to get to the part where he's smiling again.

The trouble is, of course, Rhy's misunderstanding him.

"I didn't just choose it," Ronan says. "I'm the one who made the offer."

He takes the bottle automatically, lifting it partway to drink on habit before deciding to wait. Rhy sets it on his knee again, fingers curled around the neck, and turns to look at Ronan fully. His golden eyes search Ronan's face when he answers, some instinctive part of him trying to make sure, as if he can just tell. Of course, all he has to go on are Ronan's words.

He'd asked. Ronan, insisting he does not lie, had answered.

Rhy lifts the bottle finally, takes a drink, and leans over to set it on the nightstand. Some of the tension across his shoulders has eased.

"If it is an arrangement between you and him that you've asked for, it's not something I should be concerned about."

There is a question wrapped not-so-subtly in that statement: Should I?

"Well..."

Things have gotten so much more complicated since the Dimming. Ronan had been so happy with his situation, so pleased with his devoted protector. He'd wanted for nothing.

Then the Singularity started going dark and Ronan got hungry.

He leans closer, until his chin nearly comes to rest on Rhy's shoulder. "I violated the agreement," he confesses, "when I gave myself to you."

There's no need to get into the details of the consequences. They're not exactly a secret, but they're also not Rhy's business. Kylo and Ronan have settled it between them, except for the next part, which is entirely Rhy's choice to make.

Ronan continues, "It's alright with him if you want to be with me again. But, um..." And this is embarrassing. It's not a demand that sounds natural coming from his mouth, at least not to his own ears. He can feel his face growing hot before he gets the words out.

"He says you have to beg him."

Thancred has now been a guest of Castle Thorne for enough time that he's started to pick up on some common themes in the chatter that goes around in the dining areas and even in the town below. Not just about High Mage Ambrose or the royal family, where hushed tones are more common, but even about fellow summoned who have been here for a good deal longer than him. There are some who have already made names for themselves, integrating into this place and carving out a reputation of some kind.

That includes the Venerable Kylo Ren, who has even gathered a cadre of mages to him. It sounds a bit more like a personal guard to Thancred than anything else, but the fact remains that this is someone who's become of influence in a rather short amount of time. Whether or not he's someone Thancred wants to ally with or befriend remains to be seen, but when he hears that he has a personal study of sorts, he decides it's worth stopping by to take a look.

The intention is to go when no one else will be there, neither Kylo or his hangers-on, and so Thancred slips in when it's late into the night. Unfortunately he appears to have miscalculated, as he does spot a singular figure in the room.

Well. This is awkward. Rather than try to duck out and pretend he was never here, Thancred instead clears his throat, one hand rising up to rub at the side of his neck.

"Oh, my apologies. I seem to have gotten myself turned around..."

The warmth radiates off Ronan's body in the sliver of space between them, his breath against Rhy's cheek. Rhy can't see most of his face, largely hidden in the closeness, but Ronan might see Rhy's jaw tighten. His fingers itch for the bottle, but he's stupidly set it back down. Instead, they curl in fists against his own thighs.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

And then, with a sudden jerk away from Ronan so he can stare at him with full bewilderment:

"Beg him?!"

[ OPEN ] the fate of the game is moving my way.

closed to hendrik;

backdated to mid-jan.

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