Cue Some Timeless Theatrics

[mosthonest]

There's a strange breeze in the plaza. That's not that weird, there always seem to be odd air currents rippling through it, but this one feels warm and Mediterranean--smells like hot sand and heady spices. And if you listened hard enough you might be able to hear the sea birds and polyglot babble it carries in from the jostling marketplace in Cyprus.

It seems to wrap around Iago, sitting at a table on which there are a few empty cups. From all outward appearances, he's no one exceptional. A seasoned, weary soldier on his off time. Simple well-worn tunic, rough hands, wide and honest face with a few scars. Simple, open smile. He gestures to the seats across from him. Classic Nexus set-up, just another soul looking to share a drink.

"I am often long away from my native land. And often do my thoughts linger on it, some parts of it I miss dearly as my heart would miss blood, as my body would miss breath." He's already offhandedly pouring wine into a cup for himself from a drawn leather sack, and now some for you.

"Knowest thou that feeling? Come, tell. I have learned the taste of wine is richer seasoned with tales of home."

[*waves* Old, old timey occasional player here. So glad to see these communities are still popping!]

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[ablacksun]

Becoming attuned to the natural elements contained within the Nexus, Zack sits back and sniffs at the air. He's currently rummaging in a bin, which Dean says isn't really what he needs to do any more, but people throw away all sorts of interesting things.

He's never scented anything like a Mediterranean seascape before, and follows the general aura of pleasant sun drenched islands and observes the character with his wine. Like a hound, Zack moves towards the colourful figure, sensing his way and ever-curious as he goes.

“You don't half talk funny,” he observes as the wine is poured - and it appears he's invited to partake. Instead of sitting, Zack crouches on the seat of the chair he's taken. This is a stranger and trust doesn't come easy. He's coiled, tightly-wound, ready to fend off trouble if need be.

“But yeah, I know what it's like, to miss home.”


[ooc: Inbuilt apology. He haz one.]

[mosthonest]

"More than half funny, so I am told. In passing jokes and lamentations I might express something like the whole Commedia of an afternoon, talk you of comedies."

Zack is not the first person in the nexus to tell him so, about the way he talks. But he can't help himself, and if anything rather pities so many inhabitants of this place whose expression seems rather stunted. How did anybody ever die or fall in love properly in the places they came from if they couldn't monologue about it first? There must be something strange in the environment in Iago's world that makes the elaborate metaphors and flowery verbiage flow out of people. Its in the air as much as the salt and the sun and the spices.

"I have not heard such a play since I was home," he says wistfully. "But tell me of thy home, sir. What is most missed?"

Iago notes the tension in Zack's posture. That's fine. He unstraps his sword and places it on the table in front of him as a gesture of goodwill. It was never his most effective weapon anyway, and if there's one thing he tries to be good at, it's putting people at ease.

[ablacksun]

Some... all right, quite a lot of what the stranger says, goes right over Zacks' head. He doesn't dismiss it all though. Something sharp and bright in his eyes tells most people he's not a halfwit. He'll just attempt to remember the words and then badger Dean about what they mean later. Or perhaps Esther. She knows about talking and reading and such.

As for Iago's elegant turn of phrase, one can only hope he doesn't feel the grammar being sucked out of him as Zack speaks.

“Mostly I miss not feeling things so much. And not being hungry. But I love the Nights. Dark, but the desert sort of glows. There's great hulks of ancient cities half-buried, but still towering.. haunting. Beautiful.”

He picks up the glass and sniffs the wine before tasting it. Its strong sharp taste is something he's not used to, at all, and it's a minor miracle he doesn't spit it out there and then. But when one is from an apocalyptic hell, the scarcity of food and water means you never waste it just because it's a little challenging.

“Gaia's arse, what is this stuff?”

[mosthonest]

"I know something of what you speak." His eyes do light up a little at what this man is saying. He's seen the desert at night too and yes, it is beautiful. In a truly alien way, to a person who was born almost literally on the lagoon, where the rocking of boats on the canals, the creek underfoot of bridges and the slosh and sucking roll of the tides was as natural to him as his own heartbeat. When too far from the water he often found himself disquieted, but it was compelling.

"I have seen the barren lands east of Damascus, where the sands are high as the reaching masts of ships." He speaks quietly, remembering. "When the moon reaches the zenith of her arc, and all her handmaid stars outspread before her, how bright the ground beneath her glows and all is silent. Like some great sea, all frozen waves set to tumble down and drown a man in silver. Such a sight."

He smiles a little at Zack's distaste. "What is it? A friend of many, enemy of some, a distiller of truths and portents and courage, that strikes a man with the will to play at love but robs him of the means." He takes a gulp of his own, enjoying the taste. "But perhaps there's nothing of its like in your desert land. Perhaps a man has nothing to drink at all."

[ablacksun]

At the mention of this exotic and wonderful place called Damascus, Zack's eyes soften. He imagines what he is able, given his home dimension. But yes, he's been on countless dying worlds, and has caught that last fleeting glimpse of beauty before he'd been compelled to make the magma rise up and claim it, or before he inflicted a new ice age, or unleashed a desert storm to end all storms, across an unsuspecting continent.

He's not sure what zenith means, but it must be a high point. To be drowned in silver must be a wonderful way to die.

Usually, at this point, he's managed to offend someone; so the stranger's amusement is met well enough. Zack can't help a half-grin at the idea that the alien drink makes people want sex and then prevents biological function.

“No, we don't have anything like this or any good water. What there is, is toxic. Full of grit and bugs. The rats get fat though. Oddly. Good eating.”

Bravely, he takes another mouthful wondering how quickly he can get used to it. “In case the time comes when this is all there is to drink,” he tells the stranger.

[mosthonest]

"Aye, 'tis thirsty to live in such a desert. In that part of the world I know, where the sun is high and water only a dream, they say the men who live there are at times so beset by thirst that they near die for the lack of drinking, and they kill their animals. They slit their throats and drink their blood." Iago almost said they were horses, but he's certain they're not horses. Something like a horse, he's seen them, but with a great arched back and more of an inclination to bite. "Is that how your kin live?"

He sloshes the skin of wine in his hand and grins. "There's more, good sir, if you would addle further your brains. And how shall I call you? I am Iago of Venice. Humble soldier in her army, ensign to her first most noble and valiant general."

[ablacksun]

Zack finds none of this distasteful. When water is scarce, blood has the added advantage of nutrients. When he kills a rat or a snake, nothing is wasted.

He doesn't know it yet, but Zack can't get drunk from mortal alcohol. He's made of the dust of dead worlds, supernaturally enhanced. He may feel pain and hunger, but poisons don't harm him too much, even if they do taste unpleasant and induce a sore belly. When Abdiron created him, he didn't want his new little brother dying on him.

“Addle away,” he pushes his glass towards Iago for a refill.

As the human seems so lordly and polished, Zack decides that his official title might present him in a good light. He's not showing off, or trying to intimidate; only show that he's worth speaking to. Some of Dean's tutelage on how to behave is actually sinking in. Try to relate to them a little, ask polite questions to show you're interested.

He's still getting the hang of 'polite' but Zack is trying hard.

“I'm Aisaak, prince of the hell dimension of Antillioch; Avenger of murdered worlds; brother to the hellgod Abdiron. He's my first most noble and valiant lord... Is your general a great man?”

[mosthonest]

Oh dear oh dear, a prince now? Iago's class consciousness is acute and prickly and he is as a rule disdainful and suspicious of the gentry. But this person does not behave like the princes he knows. And a prince of hell no less. Perhaps best get acquainted now, so he'd have friends to greet when he settles into the final and fiery end he fully anticipates.

Though his speech is pretty here, even many of the lowliest louts and scoundrels speak the same where he's from. So he's very unaware of the impression he gives of lordliness from his diction. Iago inclines his head slightly in deference, though luckily he feels he can save the toadying he'd use for a Venetian prince. Perhaps in hell, the lordly egos are less fragile.

"I know not those names, prince of hell. Were they once among those reverent seraphim? Were you? And certainly, my general Othello is the best of men. So they say in fair Venice. Though a heathen by birth, beneath his sooty visage is there a white and radiant soul, washed well with the blood of our city's general enemies. A more skilled slayer of barbarians there is none, with many felled or wounded under his sword."

Including Iago. Wounded, not slain. This barbarian fills Zack's cup once more to the brim.

[ablacksun]

“It's Zack,” he says, only now shifting position so that he's seated in the chair properly. “Everyone calls me Zack.” He hasn't been attacked yet, and figures that if the wine is going to addle Iago, then before long, he's not likely to be physically capable of attack.

He scrubs a hand through his hair and takes another sip, wrinkling his nose as he does so, but refraining from comment.

“Nothing like a nice clean soul,” he remarks. Such things as the shade of a mortal's flesh are of so little consequence, he doesn't even notice, let alone mention it. “Uh, Seraphim... angels? I saw some, once, and some live here, but me and Abe were never their kind. We're more.. elemental. Abe's born of chaos and decay. I'm born out of dying planets."

Another sip, then, “what's Venice like? Is it really fair? Abe says the cosmos isn't meant to be fair.” He may have misjudged the meaning, just a tad.