themorbidsocialite | The Stoat Insists

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The Stoat Insists

For once, a guest did not have to find Tularemia. Instead, Tularemia found the guest, scampering up to the Tailor and immediately ramming into their ankle. She hissed as she grabbed the edge of their sock, tugging with all her might in the direction she came. There was nothing that could halt this courier from her self-appointed rounds; not rain nor sleet nor heat of day. If Tularemia decided that the Tailor was needed, then she would stop at nothing to retrieve the Tailor.

She was, though, wearing her new ribbon, so she may have had to pause to let that be applied, but her every pause ended eventually!

Tularemia had sprinted through hoards of hungry bats (perhaps snatching one as a snack in return), across puddles of moonish water with care, behind allies and away from cats, over rooftops and even across hats and heads. All to get to the Tailor.

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The Tailor sighed a little. "I was worried it would be something like that." They nudged around their last bit of food, thinking. "I think I need to ask some questions at the Foreign Office. I don't know if you've been at all. The Teeth--that is, some of the folks who do the work involving subterfuge, they're..." they made a face. "Regardless of what they are or are not, there's a church in the Foreign Office that displays a Garden. I think they know something of it. I just don't know that they'll trust me," they added quietly.

"I'm due to visit the Continent myself at some point, but I had been intending to do it after the semester was over. I always prefer to spend time finding out what I can before I take on a venture. All I know for sure is that the further South you go in the Neath, the stranger things tend to be."

They finally ate the final bite, then set their fork down. From how they spoke, it was clear they were committed to involving themself--they were like this in everything they did. One could call it loyalty, maybe, but it was more than that the value of seeing things through and committing oneself to their plans with all they were.

And then another thought. "And I think a visit to the Underclay should also be considered. I've heard rumor, though I've never seen them myself, that one can get mountain sherds there. Some of the Clay Men that would end up in Spite would mention them, occasionally."

They tapped their lower lip. "I'll look into what rumors I can find by next week, and let you know, so that you can explore every avenue. I've given myself a monumental task with my project," they grimaced at their own folly, "but I'm determined to make sure you're prepared."

Mori nodded and took notes down on a piece of paper that had made its way to the table, already detailing a shopping list in someone else's pen. "South... Clay Men... Foreign Office Garden... I'll find out what I can and report it to you in return. If you've been needing to go anyway, regardless of preparation, this may be a golden opportunity. But do promise me you won't put yourself out for it. If you have doubts or anxieties, if you're behind on your project, do not feel afraid to back out. I would feel terrible, if I'd caused you undue strain or sacrifice. If you feel you must accompany, despite issues, at least let me know so that I may prepare the necessary supplies on my ship?"

They sipped from their teacup, then wiped the corners of their mouth with their thumb. "Plan for me to come, I'll compensate you if need be, and then as we get closer to the time I'll let you know if things become impossible. In that way, it's better to be over-prepared than under. I'm still in the research phase of my work, as I learn more Correspondence and how it can be expressed, so let's consider the expedition a matter of research for class."

If there was Correspondence around the aspects of the Elder Continent, if the Continent itself had any information Mori could use, then that language could play into the final project, they thought. Language and Law, and Light. Hm.

"But I promise if things change, I'll alert you soon as I know as such."

"Mori," they added suddenly, serious tone becoming a touch less professional, "thank you for being willing to talk with me on this. I know... I know it isn't an easy thing, and just that you were willing to share it with me, let alone let me help, it's..." they shook their head, eyes on their plate. "I'm really honored."

They wanted to take their friend's hand, and offer some sort of physical indication of their gratitude, but it still was... difficult. You wouldn't think it would be, but when they weren't putting up their mask of charm for others, they rarely felt like they knew what to do with their hands. Eventually, they lightly set their fingers on the wrist with the pen.

Mori's trust was a gift. They were going to keep it safe. They just didn't know how to say that. They hoped the fellow understood.

Mori paused, then smiled, turning the hand to hold the Tailor's. "I'm simply relieved. It's a burden to balance what strangers should know against what acquaintances should against what friends should and so on and so forth. I am... more than happy to count you among the inner circle, as what I can only describe as family. I am happy to be able to trust you with something so close, both the information and the execution. I know the return may take time, that truth and trust are painful things to give after so long holding them to your chest. But we have all the time in the world and simply trusting you is enough for me."

On the other side of the kitchen door, a window latch opened. Within seconds, the pittering of tiny feet came closer and scrambled as they wiggled under the door. Tularemia looked around the kitchen from the floor, her fur matted with red and black blood both, neither her own.

Relief was mixed with another feeling the Tailor didn't know how to describe. It stuck in their chest in a bad way.

(The Garden's not-)

They looked up at the noise, senses sharp from experience, and caught a glance at their additional companion. "Oh, she's going to make a right mess like that," they said with a little shake of the head. Their hand hadn't left Mori's, but they set their other elbow on the table and rested their chin on their hand. "How went the hunt, beastie?" They asked her, not expecting an answer. "I see you went and earned that breakfast instead."

The Tailor should hope the outfit could survive so much rumpling and staining, because Tularemia spotted them and launched herself up their leg, jumping onto the shirt, and standing herself proudly in their hair, almost beaming with what little expression a stoat could have.

Boots shuffled across the floor in the sitting room with exhausted breaths. Mori made a benignly put out face and called: "If you leave it anywhere, you're cleaning it up! I'm not healed!"

The boots moved closer and Enoch pushed open the door. "Glad to see you're not dead. Is there any more food left?" They were a mess, all torn clothes, blood stains, and very obvious injuries.

Mori smiled at first, then took in the sight, face falling, and finally settled into a frown, mixing fright with worry, realization, and annoyance. "You didn't... Tell me you didn't; you said you were hunting--"

"I did, I was, but it was right there. And you should've seen it, it was dark and I couldn't be all certain, but I could swear, I got the fucker to bleed. Probably just a scratch, but it's like I could smell it."

"I'm don't wish to discuss this at the breakfast table. We still have a guest."

The Devoted Huntsman looked between Mori and the Tailor and hummed. "Whose surname did you choose for the adoption forms?"

Mori turned bright red, flabbergasted at how forward their spouse was when they, themselves, spent all night slowly building accord and narrowly avoiding the topic of adopting a person already in their twenties, as much as they wanted to.

"Th- oi!"

They'd just pressed this shirt, and now it was rumpled and bloodied! And their hair, too! Irate, the Tailor half stood, but froze when Enoch opened the door.

To say they were not very pleased was a bit of an understatement, but the hunter's appearance, while not unexpected for its timing, was in far worse state than they'd predicted.

Oh, wait- Mori had mentioned Vake-hunting, hadn't they? That would explain-

The question hit the Tailor far harder than it was probably meant to. They took a breath, and then said far too politely, to a person they did not know to the extent they now knew Mori, "I think you'll find I'm keeping mine. I like the ring of it."

In a calm manner, they stood fully and plucked Tularemia out of their hair, setting her on the kitchen table.

"Right," they said, all business, reaching for their vest and coat, "I think that's my cue. Mori, I'll see you next week, I hope, unless I find something sooner. Do you need anything before I go?"

The wall was back up. One courteous Anachronistic Tailor had returned. Well. Sans their very tidy hair and shoes (which were still under the loveseat).

Mori, for a moment, looked a touch lost and mournful. He glanced between his spouse and who he hoped- nay, prayed would still be as close when they met again, or if the abrupt cut, the failure to Follow the Script, had cost them all the progress they made that night's stay. Then, just as quickly, his own walls of propriety went up.

"No, I will be fine. I'll be looking forward to seeing you again. Stay safe, luv?" One last genuine reach, subtle, ignored or acknowledged or returned in kind, just enough to give plausible deniability.

The Tailor met Mori's gaze, and if one was looking, maybe hoping and wishing too, one might see something a little like fear in the peligin. But that was a foolish kind of imagination, wasn't it?

"All my fingers and toes still on," they said quietly, trying for a smile that didn't quite reach their eyes. "Take care of yourself."

It was the closest they could manage, right now, to honesty. A silly little urchin saying about keeping in one piece.

They passed Enoch quickly, with a quiet and polite sort of goodbye, and slipped into the sitting room to slip on their shoes and attempt to sort their hair to little avail. They stopped before heading to the window, though. Crouched by the desk again, and touched the chest underneath without any other disturbance to it. Didn't say anything, only took a moment.

And then they were out the window, and back onto the rooftops. Better to stay up here until they got back to their own flat, so no-one would see the mess they were. And they were indeed a mess.

In more ways than one.

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The Stoat Insists

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