a garden and a grave

How bleak. There it was again, that purring, bastardly laughter of sadistic pleasure. Each time it wound through his consciousness, Vikari couldn't shake the sensation that his brain was being reduced to viscous slop. It made his lips twitch into a snarl.

But he couldn't deny the truth to its commentary, not as he looked upon the once grandiose walls of his orphanage and every horrible imperfection etched into them. Bricks weathered and crumbling. Fissures exacerbated by harsh, enduring winters. The gardens, once meticulously attended, were now barren, withered away after years' long neglect (which Vikari had ascertained by listening constantly, carefully, without discretion). Souls Astray was no longer a beacon fit to light the way of the damned and despondent; it was bleak. Another ruin... just like him.

The All-father had thwarted death, had defied the fate declared for him, and it was now time to ensure that his enterprise joined him in this new era of life, of possibilities and retribution. It took months before he was satisfied, before the interior glittered when spring sunshine spooled through the cracks and open windows; before the overlooked corners were cobweb-free; before the lavender stalks lining the structure burst open, purple and pretty.

"In what form would you like your payment?" Seated on the second step, and luxuriating as much as he felt he could afford to on this relatively unsubstantial yet blissful afternoon, his head turned incrementally to permit the frigid blue of an eye to fixate on the figure behind him. "I imagine your time is valuable. I'd be remiss not to compensate you for it," he added in that same low, rumbling timbre. Hardly a thanks, but as close as would be expected. Fool, intruded the laughter once more, causing Vikari's ear to involuntarily flick. What if he demands your life? Would you willingly die a second time?

code // art

Satisfaction oozed from every pore, pride proffered for a profession completed - if pride was the slick slide of poison through veins blackened by sin and sundry. Notably, however, his gaze was turned not towards the vapid buildings, but rather the walking corpse who stood before him.

A dead man, turned living again. A fascinating circumstance, but one whose mechanism eluded him. The damned Fae Fog had made a mockery of science, and a fool of every scholar. But Nero had never known a world that had not been tainted by the magic miasma. Mystery was a truth unmitigated, a reality unmarred by nostalgia. It defied expectation, true, but the mold had long since split to accommodate its new model. Only fools and fogeys clung still to the past.

And thus his client surveyed his newly reborn domain, and Nero surveyed his client. The job itself had been simple, routine - boring, even. It had been the connection that had truly roused his interest, the whisper of a name once lost. He'd accepted the terms on a whim, but the prospect of further entertainment was still in question. And so when a question of payment was posed, the consultant hummed, as if granting acknowledgement.

Careful consideration was given due, all the weight inherent of future prospects pressing upon the scale. Acid green met frigid blue, peering within - and then the mask cracked into a charming smile, sharpened bone teased from behind alabaster curtains. "I operate upon a system of obligations. A service rendered, to be repaid at a future juncture - a favor, granted commiserate to the effort spent." A pause, to give appropriate weight to each word. His head tilted slightly - hands tucked into pockets, a casual lean back. "Doth that meet with thine approval, sir?"

Not that he required as much to consider the deal struck. But it was the principle of the thing, to be sure. It was only polite; they were both gentlemen here.