#earthrunes

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Symon has been here enough times to be familiar with the layout of the hold, yet not enough times to be truly comfortable. Sidhe wandering the hallway on occasion in various states of undress, and an unseemly amount of pooka, don't really lend towards that onthe best of days for most sluagh.

MOST sluagh, however. There is one Sluagh who has not only made peace with the atmosphere, but made her home here, a literary kingdom where she alone reigns.

It is at this door that Symon knocks.

The door opens, seemingly of its own accord. The Library itself is a refuge from the.... FIona outside, smelling of dust and paper and worn cloth and tea.

Symon enters. His is the scent of dust,dank and basement mildew, an acrid hint of chemical preservatives, tempered by a lingering trace of rich earth and decomposing soil. And today - the faintest touch of blood?

“Elen sila lumenn' omentielvo, a star shines on the hour of our meeting.” Bronte chirps from her perch on a writing desk. She has a book open, and several others stacked beside her (for emergencies)

He gives the bookwyrm a nod, then an uncomfortable fidget. "Didn't bring anything for you today. Sorry. Just here on business." Realizing belatedly that he has been impolite.

“Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed.” the bookwyrm sighs.

"Bronte, none of that. Greetings, Denier. Mind her not, greedy thing."

"She's right. It's gauche of me to arrive without a gift. When I come asking a favor." His head ducks a bit.

The Librarian makes a soft noise of dismissal before she rises from her chair. "Feh. I smell a gift. Or, mayhaps, the favor."

He joins her wherever she might indicate. "I wish this was a social visit. I'd rather have brought a book and fair news. ...I wish I could even say that you knew why I was here, because it would be news. But it's not - it's... when this shit happens every day... every DAY... it stops being news and starts being just... life?" He has a dark expression, even for Symon, and not his usual affected glower.

Zara frowns slightly, and shepherds him towards a chair. "Aye?" Gently encouraging without pressing, as she begins the ritual of Tea.

He slides into the chair, not gracefully, but more like a loose sack being draped there.

"There was a shooting, in Bergen. Rivervale territory. We almost lost one of our childlings, a dog pooka. A wilder saved him, but there were other victims. Mortal kids, dead."

Zara quietly freezes, and is still for a long moment.

"Fuck."

Symon nods slowly. "Right?"

"The shooter was caught, by Chieftain Brekke. ...He lives."

Zara frowns and nods. "Mortal?"

A slow nod. He pulls something from his pocket - looks like a handkerchief or piece of cloth, wrapped up in a latex glove so that no part of the fabric is exposed. There is a bit of an unmistakable red-brown stain visible.

"He wanted to off himself when he was done. Said he needed his name to be known. Chief wouldn't give him the satisfaction."

"Chief... she was being really cagey. Made me feel stupid." He says, candidly. "I don't know why she was pussyfooting around, but I'm not exactly sure what she was getting at. She said that it's not her say what happens to him next. That's what puzzles me. How the hell is it not? It felt like.. like she was trying to pass the buck. Normally I wouldn't expect her to be so squeamish..." He rubs at his chin thoughtfully.

"The baroness is a troll, a Gwydion, and very, very seelie."

"I've seen her saw the finger off a wilder who was possessed. She doesn't normally balk at punishment where due."

"I believe your friend with the polearm is much the same?" Zara examines the fabric without yet touching it. "In such a condition, they are... bound... in ways we are not."

"A wilder - a fae. And one under her direct authority. Not a mortal held in mortal hands."

A slow nod. "I'd argue that this falls under 'never forget a debt'... but I ain't here to discuss politics, right?"

"She is not forgetting a debt. But... she is, I think, seeking the appropriate avenue. Trolls are dreams of strength, of honor, of defense. They are direct creatures. Forthright to a fault."

He nods slowly. "She had mentioned.... ah. Oh." Sudden realization, and he frowns deeply.

"And of our dream - we, who dwell in shadow and underfoot - our duty includes education of mortals."

"The shooter wished for fame? Notoriety? Do I understand this correctly?"

He splays his fingers onto the table top, on either side of the blood-stained cloth. "I had thought... seeking you out, to see if you could help. Find a way that his name would be lost forever. Or long enough. Maybe strip it from him entirely, so he doesn't even know his own name - or so that the only words that could come out of his mouth were the names of his victims. At least, for as long as he lasted in prison. I don't expect long, even criminals have codes, and kid killers are only 2nd to one other group in being persecuted by other prisoners."

There seems to be an unspoken "...but..." there.

"But?"

"...but, for someone that claimed to not have any preference on how he should be treated... she seemed to be pushing for a wild hunt. It didn't click until just now."

"That said, she said it was up to me to choose the punishment, or none at all. Not that I appreciate the 'privilege'."

"Perhaps she wished an alternative to a wild hunt? Something a sluagh could do, which a troll could not."

"The mortal wished to be shot, to die in glory, to be remembered, to be infamous. Would nota Wild Hunt also satisfy him?"

"The only unseelie hold I'm at all familiar with is... well, they have a Varich as one of their lords. I've had dealings with her in the past, she's not the worst one of her house... even courteous, to a degree. But I prefer to limit interaction to the bare minimum."

Symon taps his fingers on the table softly as he considers Zara's insight. "Could be that it would, at that. Though, my understanding is that the prey of the hunt is driven before beast and hunter in such a terror that they can think of nothing other than their own fear and despair. Not that -I've- ever been on a hunt." An undignified snort.

"I see what you mean, though. Why justify him as worth such effort?"

"I do not think the baroness would hesitate to call a hunt if she thought such would be appropriate - the Shacklebreaker would take it without pleasure, but as a grim duty. Do you think this assessment fair?"

"I do. Which is why I'm a bit puzzled why she was so cagey about it."

"I guess what it came down to is that she called me in to handle it. Which... well, I can't say I think I'm the best person, but... " A nearly boneless-looking slump of a shrug. "It is what it is. So I guess it's my call. So I guess we'll do whatever is to be done... our way. Might be more subtle than a calling of the hounds, but..."

He looks up at Zara, one sluagh to another. "Would you help me?"

"It seems a matter of trust in your judgement, Denier."

Zara pauses. "And perhaps... pray, you know her better than I... perhaps a fear of her own anger outweighing her judgement. Gwydion and trolls both may harbor a deep fire of rage, one which may slip their control."

He gums a lip. "Yeah. Though I don't think anyone would miss this guy if he ended up getting pounded into a bloody smear, it would suck if the Chief had to feel bad about losing control over it."

"As to my judgement?" A small scoff, at himself. "Well, that's another thing. But I trust you, and hope for your guidance. I have ideas. YOU have power."

"And being cagey - she is, doubtless, not proud of her anger." Zara places a cup of tea before Symon. Is that tteokcha?

"We have power, Denier. And aye, I shall help my cousin with this."

"You remembered." He says... not quite impressed, no - that might infer that he was surprised. But grateful, as he wraps fingers around the cup.