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| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | Roper gets back to Shattrath during a week of a stake-out in Darkshire, and discovers he's won the right to a contract for an Eviction Notice of one of the Mana Tombs. He and Syarra head out to serve the lethal paperwork, and return back to their room with improved rep with the Consortium. They talk about their different upbringings, and make decisions on their forward movements across the gameboard, including what to do about a potential apprentice spy. 9k words. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Tuesday evening, in the Scryer’s Tier in Shattrath.
There's no sound before the door unlocks, and opens, despite the plate armor the Death Knight wears. He clears the doorway quickly though, his attention on the room as though looking for something.
Syarra, fully armed, is sitting at the table. She looks up at the door opening and nods at Roper.
Roper tears off his gauntlets as he draws in close, tossing them onto the table. There’s the inherent threat of a Death Knight moving fast, but there’s nothing at all in him that suggests danger, his hands reaching up for her hair.
"Rough day?" Syarra asks, turning toward him and rising.
There’s a sense of relief to him, as he gets as close as the plate will reasonably allow, setting his cheek against hers. “Rough week. Fuck, it's so fucking boring." He inhales and his voice sounds a little gentler. "Hey."
"You haven't found her yet, then," Syarra says quietly, closing her eyes for a moment.
"No. We must have missed her starting. But, if she holds to what she's been doing, should be today, or tomorrow. If not, she's either found another hunting ground, or we've lost her."
"Do you want a change of pace?" Syarra asks, pulling back. "You don't need to be there always."
Roper barely shakes his head. "I got Theris holding it. But, no. I'll do it. By tomorrow, if she's not there, I'll pull back and see what the fuck is happening." Roper does, in fact, pull back. "And I've got good news and bad news for burning my candle stash."
"Oh?" Syarra raises an eyebrow.
"Good news, I got word from the Ethereals I wanted to hear from, the contract I wanted to get, down in that Auchindoun place.” Roper moves his hands through Syarra's hair as though maybe he's helping with the braid. Maybe. “Something about mana harvesting, and some of them getting caught selling to the wrong highest fucking bidders, traced back from Quel’danas. Legal eviction, and there’s nothing at all about the method, just that they’re out.”
"That is good news," Syarra says. "I was trying to get in with them in Nagrand, as well, so I may be considered trustworthy. Should we… evict them?"
"Yeah, we…probably have to. That's the bad news. This came in two fucking days ago, and the deadline’s by tomorrow morning, signed off that we’ve fulfilled it, and getting out of it…would not look good.” Roper inhales to exhale an annoyed sigh.
"Let's do it then," Syarra says, straightening. "The candles can wait."
Roper shrugs, a rolling gesture of his shoulders. "I'd have like to at least fucking scouted it, or get a map, but." He reluctantly lets his hands fall from her hair, as he picks up his gauntlets to restrap them on. "Fuck it."
At the Tombs.
Syarra tosses corpse dust and gestures, and a ghoul clambers out of the ground. "This time, I don't need to worry about appearances. The ethereals don't care." Syarra smiles.
Roper sets the helmet over his face with annoyance. "You fought any of these yet?"
"Some, yes, down in Nagrand." Syarra shrugs. "They don't seem to feel that much."
Roper makes a rolling sound of disgust as frost covers him. "Well. Fuck."
They kill a few of the Ethereals.
"Yeah, I see what you mean."
"Trolls are more entertaining, in that regard," Syarra shrugs. "But we're here to win them over, not for fun."
Roper grins at Syarra. It's barely visible through the helm, more in the way his eyes move. "It's a little fun." Roper is mowing through the Ethereals like they owe him money.
"It's good to enjoy your work," Syarra says, smiling down at the discarded bandages.
Roper looks at the void demon. "What is that. It's setting my fucking teeth on edge."
Syarra frowns. "It looks like the creatures over in Nagrand. But larger. I'm not sure what they were doing there."
"Demon, obviously, but there's something…fucked up about it." He rolls back his shoulders, the knives moving dangerously. "Well. Probably it can die. So."
It can die, but it’s a hard won death. A lot of Void blasts hit the Death Knight.
Roper grits his teeth. There's pain radiating from him in waves. "Fuck."
Syarra looks over at him with an almost lazy smile. "How bad is it? It was mostly attacking you."
Roper lets his head drop back. "It's fine. It'll pass. Fuck. Something…magic, or some shit." Roper starts walking forward. "I just need to kill something."
She steps toward him and then pauses, taking a breath. "Then let's keep going."
Sure enough, as he tears through the Ethereals, bit by bit, the pain fades.
Roper really does not play fair with the mages.
Syarra follows along, killing everything in sight. It is a violent tomb eviction. "I should update you on my week as well. It's secure enough here, no one will survive."
Roper laughs. That might be the death mania going. It's unclear. "I bet it was more exciting than mine."
Some Mana Wyrms blow up on top of the Death Knight.
"Fuck!" Roper was not, apparently, expecting the mana wyrms to explode.
"Oh, I should have mentioned that." Syarra says, looking at the bodies mildly. "That happens, when you kill them full of energy."
Roper mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like, something about mana wyrm insurance would have been believable.
"We… I mean the sin'dorei, they can drain mana from these creatures. They're not uncommon around Silvermoon." Syarra watches the wyrms drifting with no sign of sympathy. "I had one as a pet once. Long ago."
"The thing that the Other Syarra killed?"
"Right, that was in the journal," Syarra almost smiles. "I assume that part didn't bother you. That one was not my pet. The one I killed."
"I figured. No. Didn't bother me. Wasn't you talking." Roper moves his jaw a little. "I don't know what I might have thought about it before, exactly. The Other Roper."
"I don't see why that would bother anyone," Syarra furrows her brow slightly. "Anyway, I traded one addiction for another, so those days are behind me."
"It seemed bad. The way she talked about it," Roper says, but he doesn't sound particularly like he cares about it. "But I wonder if it's why you came out less…" Roper moves a hand vaguely, his sword swishing patterns in the air.
"Less?"
"Some of the others, they went too hard to start. Like Enaliya, running fucking indulgent the second they realized they could. The rest just stayed put, getting hungrier and hungrier, and let themselves slip into nothing more than shadows."
"Hm," Syarra says. "I suppose I'd been managing an addiction for years. Since the Third War. Though ordinarily I did not need to kill things, to satisfy the mana cravings."
"Technically," Roper says as he rolls his neck slightly. "I wouldn't have to kill anything for mine. I've felt it. I could just keep going off pain, not death. But. They'd tell things I wouldn't want told."
"I don't know if I could," Syarra says, thinking. "I haven't tried. I don't really want to. And yes, I don't think that would help our reputation."
Roper deliberately pulls a mana wyrm away from Syarra before it would explode. It explodes on Roper instead. This is fine. "So. What was the week?" Roper says as he grits his teeth around some mana burn explosion pain that fades slowly.
"Anyway, my week," Syarra says. "I spent time in the World's End."
Roper's expression is hard to read under the helm. But there's a pause. "Oh, yeah?"
"I don't think I heard anything terribly important," Syarra shrugs. "Main topics of conversation surround Kael'Thas Sunstrider and the fall of Illidan. It takes time, I suppose."
Roper makes a ha sound. And his voice is dry. "So, you know, nothing important. Just the fate of the world."
"Nothing we didn't know about. And like I said, I fought for the Ethereals, in Nagrand." She pauses. "With Kas, once. Otherwise alone."
Roper tenses, and there's a crackle of ice over his armor. He mutters something. "You fought with him, or you fought with him? He still fucking following you?"
"Alongside him," Syarra clarifies.
"Yeah, but, you know. With him like you were together out there, or just…near around each other doing the same thing." There's an irritated sound in his voice. Maybe it's the Shadow Word: Pain. Maybe it's something else.
"I told him what I was doing and he joined me," Syarra gives Roper a look. "Allies are bound to fight alongside us from time to time. I don't know if he left afterward or followed me."
Roper looks at the mountain of a creature. "Well. What the fuck." Roper looks at his swords. Sure. Swords versus a mountain. What will go wrong.
"It's not that big," Syarra says, eyeing the mountain.
Roper laughs briefly. "You've seen bigger?" he drawls as he stretches out a hand covered in ice.
They kill a rock giant, who is not THAT big.
Syarra raises her eyebrows, looking at the dead giant.
Roper mutters under his breath as he takes off his helm briefly, moving his jaw back and forth. "Fuck." His tongue moves around as though he's counting his teeth.
"Anyway, I got some advice," Syarra adds. "If we dance, we try to win."
Roper looks at Syarra. "I wasn't planning on making it look like we were trying to lose. It's gotta look good. But, the kind of shit we'd need to pull to beat what they put out…" Roper shrugs. "Like with Aze. You never want them to think you're losing on purpose."
"Yes, of course," Syarra says. "But we need to be impressive."
Roper gives Syarra a lazy grin. "I'm always impressive," he drawls.
"I'm meeting Aze on Thursday," Syarra says casually.
Roper rolls his neck again as though it will help at all with hiding the pain he's in from the poison. "Oh, yeah? Where?"
"She suggested we meet in Stormwind," Syarra says, with a huff of a laugh. "If I could manage."
Roper makes a tsch sound. "Can she?"
"I don't know," Syarra says, swinging her sword through another voidwalker. "I don't think I'll call her bluff, this time."
"Would be good to know. I've been betting on her not being able to easily get to somewhere like Darkshire, for now. Enaliya is not easy to find. She doesn't use gryphons. But, sooner or later, someone could slip. Or fuck, I don't know, maybe demon hunters can hunt shit other than demons. But if she can get to fucking Stormwind, that's both a problem, and leverage."
"I would not place bets on Aze not being able to get what she wants," Syarra says carefully. "Though as far as I know, she hasn't been there."
"If that changes — you knowing for sure one way or another, tell me."
"I will. And this time, her second offer was her room. In Scryer's Tier." She glances at Roper to see his reaction. "I won't let her stab me this time."
"Good." Roper pauses as he studies his sword, flipping it one side than the other. "I need to know how much she actually gives a fuck about the Aspenwoods."
"Why? For leverage?"
"Yeah. Against her…and the Aspenwoods. Goes both ways, but I'd rather not need to use it. The Aspenwoods aren't just some random noble family. The Lady Aspenwood sits on the fucking Council of Nobles. If their house is seen associating with the Horde and illegally at that, going into Stormwind in violation of the fucking treaties?" Roper laughs, but it's dark, and cold. "Good to have, if I needed to make Aze back down, if she'd give a fuck."
"She could get them in a lot of trouble. If she got caught." Syarra frowns. "I don't think she would, without an exit plan. Or a shield."
"Doesn't need to be caught. I just need to know if it's happened. I can do a lot with very little. Especially if I seem to know something I shouldn't. If she's even just been there, I can use it, if I needed to."
"I think she was just…" Syarra shrugs. "You know, bargaining. Offer something they won't go for. She just goes big."
Roper makes a tsk sound. "Yeah. It's a classic. You ask for something you know they'll say no to, so they'll say yes to the next thing. She's good at manipulating people."
"I think it's good she's being obvious about it. There's a kind of honesty in that."
Roper scoffs, but he looks over at Syarra. "You saw it in her letter. All the things she was doing. 'Attempts at rapport.' The Other Syarra fall for them?"
"The Other Syarra had rapport with her," Syarra says, glancing over at the last remaining Ethereal. "I assume. That's probably the difference."
Roper examines the Ethereal as he considers, moving his swords around in an idle pattern. "That's the guy. The whatever they call them. Merchant Prince, or whatever."
"Let's kill him?"
"We need his fancy…bandages. Be careful not to damage them too much."
This guy really does not want to be evicted.
They serve him the eviction notice anyway.
"I feel like I may have given you an odd picture of Aze," Syarra says, as they make their way out.
"I met her," Roper says, sounding faintly amused.
"Would you say she was as you expected?"
"Smart, manipulative, self-righteous, and charming in her own way? Yeah. What I expected."
Roper slings the Special Bandages to the Nexus-Prince with a casualness that belies how difficult the eviction was. "Contract fulfilled."
"Well, then, maybe I didn't," Syarra doesn't sound too concerned. "Anyway, that's done and on time."
"What do you mean, you didn't?" Roper asks, as he collects the reward, given with a sense of disdain from the Nexus-Prince. "You know who to ask for, next time," Roper shoots over his shoulder as he starts walking away from the Ethereals, as though this didn't particularly matter.
"Give you a wrong impression," Syarra says, as they turn away from the Nexus-Prince.
Roper relaxes more as they get further away from the Ethereals.
"She'll be useful," Syarra adds. "But now… candles?"
Roper makes an amused sound as he tips his head back. "Candles." He would almost sound tired, except for the buzz of energy around him, possibly from the eviction. "And dance practice. How impressive are we talking?"
"You saw her," Syarra says quietly. "She came in pulled by lynxes. I don't think we can go too hard on this one."
Roper sucks on his teeth. "Yeah, but there's a difference between going hard at dancing and going hard at impressing."
"Impressive dancing," Syarra says firmly. "I don't think we need fireworks or eternal blizzards. And it can't seem like we're trying too hard, either. We need to be doing it for us, not them."
Roper shakes his head and it's clear the helm is bothering him, but he's not removing it while they're out where they could be observed by ghosts and miscellaneous bandage wrapped people. "Still different kind of impressing. I mean, I can be impressive. For example, finding out what the first dance those two ever did together in public, and we do it. It tells them something about us, what we can know. So, which one did Kas," there's a subtle extra emphasis on the name, an edge to his voice, "Mean for impressing?"
"Kas said to only dance if I wanted to," Syarra says, looking back to meet Roper's eyes, within the helmet. "Not for them. And if it's for me, and for you, then I want to impress. Not their first dance. That makes it for them."
Roper moves a hand in a twist of his wrist. "It's the kind of thing I'd do, if it were for me, if they'd hired me and I was impressing them. There'd be a lot of satisfaction at making them wonder how safe their secrets are from me," Roper says and there's a dark light in his eyes as he holds out a hand to summon the Deathcharger. There's a grating scream of terror as it's dragged upwards from the shadows. "But this isn't me. They hired you. So, what do you do, to impress them as Syarra Sunstrike?"
"What I would want…" Syarra gestures, and her horse trots in obediently out of the shadows. "I would want to make them desire us, even for a moment, despite themselves. Knowing what we are. I would want to dance well enough for that." She swings up into her saddle.
Roper seems, for a moment, genuinely taken aback. There's a sense of him taking almost a double-take at Syarra, and the helm finally is too annoying for him to keep on, as he removes it so he can look at her more clearly.
There's no sweat on his brow, although his hair is disheveled, and he looks harder at Syarra with that intense gaze, as though he's trying to see into her fully. "Desire us?" The rasp is stronger in his voice.
"We've been trying to carve out a place for us," Syarra says, turning her burning, blue gaze to meet his. "And sometimes I just want us to have it. I don't know if I can command respect by fighting well, at least from my people, because of the way I fight. Maybe this is another way."
Roper tosses his head back for a brief laugh that he seems to quiet rapidly as though trying not to draw attention to himself without the hood up in something like public. He looks back at Syarra with a lopsided grin, and something in his eyes, affection maybe, if not quite so soft. "Far be it from me to criticize impatience," he drawls. "So. What kind of desire are you talking about? Show them what we are, without tipping that hand? Or show them us, you and me."
"Something that will make them see us as more than dead things," Syarra says, smiling back at him as her death charger heads toward Shattrath. "More than disposable bodies to throw at the Lich King when they've learned what they can from us. I am tired of being seen as less."
Roper sits back harder into the saddle, as he taps out a beat on his left leg, the Death Charger kicking up into a faster pace. It's clear from the way he's fixed his gaze into some middle distance that he's thinking.
Syarra pushes her horse into a canter to follow, her mannerisms as if she's riding an actual, living horse. She seems content to ride in silence for a while.
Roper says nothing until they get closer to Shattrath, where he digs out a cloak to settle on himself, and the horse is banished back to the Realm of Shadows with a dismissive gesture that calls the shadows up to drag it out from under him. "Intensity. That's what we can do that most just fucking can't. Strength and speed."
"Endurance too," Syarra says, swinging off of her horse and keeping her focus on Roper as it disappears into shadow. "Though that part may be less impressive. You have an idea?"
"Yeah. Like I said, I know a lot of dances. If I take a few of the most fucking…" Roper moves his hands in the air in demonstration as though in suggestion of twirls and flips, his fingers moving with as much fluid grace as the gauntlets will allow him. "Pieces, stitch them together, and I speed it up, five times faster? That's the kind of shit that takes either fucking professionals, or…" Roper turns to look at Syarra. "A couple of elite Knights."
"I'm… not a professional," Syarra says, some of the certainty fading. "It won't be impressive if I fall."
Roper moves in closer, pushing his hood back up just enough to see her, a crooked smile on his face. "I'd catch you, and make it look like we did it on purpose. I'm not letting you fucking fall, Sya."
"Then let's try," Syarra glances toward Scryer's Tier. "We can always back out if it isn't going well. Or… I might be able to ask Ranneowyn for help. If she'd be willing."
Roper taps his fingers against his leg for a moment, as he starts for their room, his voice dipping lower. "It'd be a good reason to talk to her, if you were looking for one. She seemed willing to chat, at the least, even in public."
"Yes," Syarra nods, keeping stride with him. "I sent her a letter, too, afterward. And she is a dance teacher. It's a possibility."
Roper pauses again, and there's that sense of him thinking. When he speaks, it's in that neutral voice, all business for the moment. "I'm not sure how much we could use, before we'd run the risk of just…" He waves a hand vaguely. "Mimicry. Showing them what they've seen before but not as fucking good as she could have done, and that's not what we need. But, every single thing you could get from her would be worth the rapport. We could put something in of hers, a nod, build the connection. She used to be Aze's teacher, right?"
"Yes, Aze had a lot of potential. People used to say that often. She's got so much potential, if only she would…" Syarra says, then shakes her head. "But she is a good dancer, Aze. And at least I didn't have to carry the burden of high expectations."
Roper's head goes up slightly, almost like he's caught a scent on the wind, and there's a relaxing of his body language for a brief second before there's a faint noise of almost amusement. He moves in a lot closer to Syarra, until they're in step with each other. "That's a way to put it," Roper says in his usual voice, and then drops it low, so low that it's barely audible, his sibilants controlled, "I have a tail. Keep walking just like normal." He sounds amused even in the near whisper.
"Were you expecting that?" Syarra murmurs, barely audible, without breaking stride.
Roper makes a sort of humming sound, as though he's controlling a laugh. "It's one of the kids. It's fine. I'll deal with it later." Slightly louder he adds, "Parents didn't expect much from the older one?" He's still walking much closer to her, and it's likely the only thing stopping him from slinging an arm over her shoulder might be that it would slow them down with the awkwardness in the armor.
"I had already disappointed them, by the time she came around," Syarra says, matching his volume. She does not sound like this bothers her in particular. "Strikingly little affinity for the arcane, despite the family background."
Roper picks up the pace ever so slightly as they get closer to the Tier and their room. "Father was a magister. You've never really mentioned your mother. Same deal?" That he says slightly lower, but it may be because they're getting closer to the other sin'dorei around the Scryer's Tier.
"She studied magic, some," Syarra says, as they approach the room. "But not as a career. She… managed the family."
"Political match up for family lines bullshit, or what?" Roper mutters as they pass the front of the building and enter the hallway to their room.
"My parents?" Syarra raises her eyebrows. "Not at all, they were in love. But being in love doesn't mean you stop wanting power."
Roper laughs quietly and there's a softening in his voice, something affectionate, almost warm in the way he dips into something huskier and darker. "Ain't that the fucking truth."
Syarra unlocks their door and walks in, waiting for Roper to follow. Her gaze shifts behind him, trying to catch sight of any potential interloper.
Roper steps inside, and shuts the door behind him, locking it with an automatic twist of his fingers. "She's not good enough at it yet, but she's getting there," Roper drawls. "She's gonna be good someday." There's almost a note of pride in his voice. "A few pointers here and there, and fuck, she might have actually evaded me with the fucking hood."
"One of the street children," Syarra says. "Are you training her intentionally?"
"I wasn't before, but I might now," Roper says as he starts stripping out of the armor, tossing it onto the table. "Assuming she doesn't try to fucking stab me when I leave."
"It might be a good idea," Syarra says, starting to take her own armor off. "You've been using them to get information, right? She could be the start of your own living network of trained spies."
"If I can get her loyal to me, yeah." Roper shrugs out of his pauldrons. "It's how I." There it is again — a sudden stop in his sentence, as he inhales sharply and closes his eyes as though something is ringing in his head, frost covering him in a snap of cold.
Syarra closes the distance between them, though she's still wearing her legplates and boots. She reaches out a hand to touch the frost on his shoulder. "Echo? Come back, Roper."
Roper opens his eyes, and there's the briefest moment where there's something in them that's dangerous, and it's blinked away as he recognizes her, making a low sound as he shakes his head to the side as though getting water out of his ear, a sharp twitch of movement. "Echo," he confirms, his voice a deep scraping sound. "Fuck. They're all…isolated out. I." He works his jaw for a second as the frost fades. "I got my start the same way. From the fucking street, for a talent, into SI:7. Something…with a friend."
"Then you can do the same, but for the Ebon Blade," Syarra says. "It worked for SI:7. Do you remember the friend?"
Roper shakes his head. "No. Not…" He makes an irritated sound as he shoves his fingers against his forehead as though trying to manually push something out from under his skull. "I wanted to make him laugh. My back was still on fire, and I knew his had to be even worse, and I said, 'wouldn't it be funny if I made that guy think I was the agent?' And he's already laughing, and I can feel —" He breaks off with a snap of his jaw.
Roper inhales and resumes tearing off the saronite, his lips set in a hard line. "I'm not Matthias fucking Shaw. I never wanted to be. I won't build a full network, but one or two that are actually mine? Yeah. That I can do."
"One or two would be useful," Syarra says, stepping back to resume taking her armor off. "They can go places we can't. It doesn't need to rival SI:7."
"Not really a 'manage people' kind of guy though. Never was. Assets were different. Those I just made whatever they fucking needed to see, and got them where I needed them to be." Roper seems steadier the longer he talks, as he glares at the table. "I wasn't me. I was almost never the right choice to send in," he says and there's something darker in the tone.
"Well, that time's over," Syarra says, setting her last boot aside and straightening up in her black under armor clothing. "I could try to manage the few, if you didn't want to. If their loyalty can be transferred."
Roper tosses the last of his armor on the table, the very tight sleeveless shirt and possibly indestructible mageweave pants underneath. He sets a hand to his waist, frowning. "If you were what they needed for me to clinch the deal, I will. Otherwise, all I can fucking do is work with the ones that would need it to be me." He exhales a sound of irritation. "I need to rewrap," he mutters, as he digs a hand through the imbued netherweave bag.
"The bullet hole?" Syarra asks, moving over to the table and chairs. "Should I help?"
Roper's brows go up and there's a twist of a smile on his lips as he leans against the table, something suggestive in his body language. "You can. You don't have to use the tongs to rip it off of me, but." A slow wink as he reaches over to Deathweave bag to pull out a very neatly rolled set of linen bandages. "I really should start carrying them around."
"Does the bandage get stuck that tightly, that I would need tongs?" She raises an eyebrow, stepping forward to touch his side, by the waist.
Roper grins, a wide enough one that it almost evens out as he flicks his brows up. "Naw, it'd just be fun." The undershirt he wears is just shy of skin tight, and thin enough that the bandages underneath are visible.
Syarra pulls up on his undershirt, but more in a clinical way than anything suggestive. Then in a voice that's neutral enough for it to not be clear what she hopes the answer is, she asks, "Will I hurt you?"
Roper cooperates with the movement with a sense of amusement to him. "Depends on how bad you are at tying knots," he drawls. "But that's more emotionally." A beat and he adds in a lower, softer voice. "No. It doesn't hurt. I can't feel anything around it." It's not quite the exact answer to the question she asked, but it might be the one that matters.
Under the shirt his torso starting from two inches above a belly button to the tops of his hips is wrapped in a linen bandage, stained now with blood, and gone ragged in multiple places. It's split at least once and has started to unravel from a different place than where it was neatly and expertly tied off on his left side.
Syarra gently works her fingers into the bandage, feeling around for the best place to start unwinding it. She doesn't seem bothered by the blood, but she asks quietly, "Do you stitch it closed? Or only the bandages?"
"Just the bandage. It's deep enough that if I don't, things get in it. And stitching didn't work the way I'd…" Roper trails off with a wave of his hand. "I'd need to stitch something over me, and that." He bares his teeth in a flash of something that is not a smile. "Really fucking isn't my style. So, like the stubble, I just…ignore it."
Syarra begins to unwind the bandage with steady hands, starting from where it's unraveled rather than trying to undo his knot. "Too much like the Forsaken? It's not like we've never skinned anyone."
"I don't like wearing shit that isn't mine. Never did." Roper tilts his head. "Clothes or skin." There's a hesitation as she starts to work at the bandage, his back still angled at the table as he faces her. His hands move slightly, and there's that sense that he's weighing something in his mind. He inhales like he's going to say something more but doesn't.
She glances up to him for a moment at the inhale, narrowing her eyes slightly in question.
Roper makes a tsk sound, and he makes a choice. His voice is lower, the husky sound of it making it sound like he's whispering, though he isn't quite. "There's something on my lower back. Something I…didn't show people. Even when I was alive. Alaisa didn't know about it at all." He tongues a tooth. "It's a scar. One that was made on purpose. I'm pretty sure I know what it is, but I don't actually remember it. I don't know exactly why I have it, or what the fuck it means." A beat. "You can look."
Syarra nods, and returns to unwinding the bloody cloth. "I won't tell anyone else, of course," she says as she circles around behind him, pulling the bandage away.
"Don't think it would really matter. It's just…a remnant. I don't like…" Roper tenses and leans forward. There's a tightness to his body language. "People behind me in general, but this. Something from the Other Roper. I really don't like people fucking looking at." A pause. "It."
"It" turns out to be a scar, as described. Just above two dimples in his lower back, at the base of his spine is a circle with a V in the center, the points of the letter dragged up past the circle's edge. The scar tissue is deep, and on closer inspection, it's visible that this was not done once: there's evidence that this exact symbol was cut into him at least six times, pieces of the flesh missing and scar tissue healed in more than one way. It looks old, at least relatively, given his age.
"Do you think it was intentional? Or inflicted?" Syarra traces the scar gently with one finger.
"Intentional." Roper tenses further but he relaxes a second after, pressing back against her. His voice has a deep scrape to it. "Related, I think, to what I know about how to fucking survive on the streets. It's a mark. I just don't…I can't fucking remember what it's for. I didn't burn it. It's just gone. Didn't come back. And every single fucking piece I have that I try to trace back to it does end in a burn." He works his jaw back and forth. "It's not fucking…shame exactly. But I know to hide it, and I know lies to tell people for it. I know they're lies. If I had to guess, I'd say…a mark of a gang."
"Maybe there were people in it who were important to you back then. I wonder if any of them are still around," Syarra holds her hand over the mark, and pauses for a moment, thinking. "Probably, or you may not have burned the memories. Do you need to clean this before I rebind it?"
"No. Just me," Roper drawls. There is the bloody residue on his skin from where the bandages trapped it from the wounds he received over the past however long it had been since he changed them. He reaches for a Deathweave bag, dragging it across the table with two fingers, and opening it. He pulls out two clean cloths, and a bottle of water.
As Roper opens and tips the water bottle onto a cloth to wet it, he stares at something in the middle distance, glaring at the wall of the room. "'Shale.'" He pauses. "That's what they would have called me. And at least one isn't…around anymore. I killed him."
"You remember?" Syarra sounds surprised, as she takes her hand away, reaching over toward the cloth and water. "Not someone precious, then?"
"No. I didn't know who the fuck he was. I didn't recognize the name at all." Roper hesitates, but hands over the cloth and water. Frost prickles around his back in bits and pieces, in a way that doesn't seem intentional. "Knight Commander Plaguefist. They had a man. I didn't recognize him. He called me 'Shale.' I didn't hesitate."
"Ah," Syarra says, starting to wipe the blood off his back with the cloth. "I remember. They did that to all of us. I don't think hesitation was ever really an option."
"I made sure it wouldn't be," Roper says to the wall, glaring so hard that lines form around his eyes and his brow. "Whoever it was…the Other Roper would have cared. So I took it all away." Roper's jaw works and he inhales several breaths he doesn't need. "I took away Alaisa. The Other Roper probably would have…never forgiven me for it. I think…he would have died for her. If it came to it. I wasn't willing. The only one I didn't burn was." Roper stops, clenching his jaw, as frost creeps around his skin.
Syarra stops, holding the bloody rag, and circles around to face him. "The Other Roper is dead, just like the Other Syarra. What and who he cared about only matters if you decide you want it to. Forgiveness doesn't matter."
Roper shifts his glare from the wall to Syarra, and there's a softening of it, as some of the tightness goes out of his face. He shakes his head slightly. "It's just information. Filling in the puzzle. What I know about who I was tells me more about me, why I do things. Alaisa…" Roper shrugs vaguely. "She matters to me. On her own fucking merit. I like her. And I know enough about who I was to fill in the blanks of what the Other Roper must have thought."
In the front, free of the bandages, is the wound that ended Roper's life — a several inch wide lopsided circle of a bullet entry wound slightly to his left side. It doesn't seem to be bleeding; the edges and some of the depth seem almost cauterized, blackened and stiff.
Syarra glances down to the wound, and reaches down to clean the undamaged flesh along his waist. "That's different. You know her. Like me with Aze, I would hope." She pauses at the edge of the wound. "I can see why you like Alaisa, even now."
Roper's lips twist into something of a smile, almost a smirk, and there's a tensing again when she touches where the bandages usually cover before he relaxes again on an exhale. "I'm starting from nothing, most of the time. The only one that's…fucked up, that I can't…I'm not starting at zero with him, is Colson. I don't…" He moves his head side to side ambiguously. "I see one thing. But, the Other Roper…he's still in here. And sometimes he screams loud enough that I can't…" He shakes his head again on the end of the sentence.
"Well, when he screams, try to remind him that Colson gets no say about you one way or another," Syarra says, looking up to meet his gaze. For a moment, there's a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, but it doesn't come through in her voice as she says firmly, "Because you're mine."
Roper gives her a lazy grin back, but there's something fierce in his eyes. "If it came to a question of you or him, I wouldn't fucking hesitate." Roper reaches out his hand for Syarra's necklace, looping under the chain to pull it free of the under armor, his fingertips touching the icicle with real frost before he grips it tight, pulling slightly on the chain. His voice drops into something with midnight echoes in it, the monster underneath peeking out. "Let the Other Roper scream all he wants. The one that matters to me is you. There isn't anyone above you to me."
Syarra lets him pull her closer, and reaches one hand to touch the stubble on his cheek. Her face relaxes into a faint smile. "If he ever gets hard to drown out, tell me. I'll try to shout him down."
Some of the intensity leaves Roper's expression, replaced by something almost playful, his left brow flicking up and down as a smirk forms on his face. He leans in closer, the husky note strong. "Oh yeah?" He taps a brief, likely familiar beat against the necklace without letting go. "Would you sing the…whatever it was called, the song you sang before." Roper makes an attempt at the Thalassian title, mangling it horribly, although he can really only mean one possible song.
Syarra actually gives a brief chuckle in surprise. "Would that work? I think me singing might just be a death day special."
"Maybe," Roper answers, tilting his head to the side, a lopsided grin pulling the smirk into something a little sweeter. "It was fucking cute as hell. And I'd know…it was you. I'd hear it. Over whatever…" He shrugs his left shoulder in a smooth lift and drop.
Syarra narrows her eyes as if she's skeptical, but the rest of her expression is only amusement as she puts one hand on his chest and sets aside the bloody cloth. She reaches for the clean bandage. "I'll remember that, not to underestimate the siren call of [Keep On Believing]." She says the name smoothly in Thalassian. "But for now, let me bandage you."
Roper just grins wider, humming the chorus. He straightens up, holding his arms out of the way as he gently drops the now very cold necklace down. "Maybe I'll start singing it on the fucking roads if I can't get Enaliya to show in Darkshire," Roper drawls. "I've been burning through fucking page after page of vocabulary. [Dancer. Dance. Dancing. Lovely. Brilliant. Wonderful. Mediocre. Interesting. Fuck.]" Roper says the Thalassian with a stronger Common accent, as though he's learned them phonetically and hasn't perfected the pronunciation.
"Perfect, now you can use your favorite word," Syarra murmurs, setting the bandage edge in place and beginning to wrap with a sense of easy familiarity with the process. "On another topic, I have started trying to find us a Forsaken warlock, now that it looks like I can probably pry the house away from Aze."
There's something that flashes in Roper's eyes at the mention of his favorite word, but he flicks his gaze away, staring at the wall. His voice seems casual. "Yeah? Any good candidates?
"A few names came up repeatedly," she says, circling him slowly. "Brimman Carlton, Rishard Blightbringer, Liyen No Surname. I asked for stable, trustworthy, and respected. At least as much as they're ever respected."
Roper snorts derisively. "Yeah, and as 'stable' as they ever are. Fucking Forsaken." It's said without significant rancor though, as though he's resigned himself to it. "But the benefit will outweigh the cost of working with one of them."
"I hope so. They'll be useful, if we can keep them in line," she continues circling and says, "Brim is a demonologist, which might be a negative for his stability in the long run. Rishard is an apothecary on the side, which… I don't know how much you know about Forsaken apothecaries. Liyen is an engineer, and something of an eccentric. Has been around in Shattrath, supposedly."
"I know enough about the fucking R.A.S.," Roper says and there's something between a sneer and a snarl on his face briefly before he clicks his tongue. "If Liyen's in Shattrath though, already a good sign. You know where in Shattrath?"
"Sometimes arguing with merchants in the Lower City," Syarra says. "Or near the Scryer's Bank. She doesn't seem to live there."
"Technically, she doesn't live anywhere," Roper drawls, but he shrugs his shoulders, moving his arms around Syarra in the motion. "But, who am I to fucking point undead fingers. You have an approach for her?"
"As in, what she might want?" Syarra considers, still circling. "Money, for one thing. That's one source of the arguing in the Lower City. But as for something more personal, we would have to pry."
Roper's gaze goes a little distant as he thinks, his right hand moving in the air as though he's playing an invisible piano. "Not necessarily. That's one of the first kinds of assignments you get, when you're learning how to be a real fucking spy and not just a fucking sneak or some bullshit assassin: learn how to tail someone, read them and interpret what you're seeing, and report back at least one thing of leverage for them. You have 'money' already. But if I wanted to see if I can train the kid into something else…this might be a good first assignment, if I can get her into it. Something that benefits us and tells me how good she's gonna be."
"Send the kid to tail a respected Forsaken warlock?" Syarra stops at the side to tie off the bandage. "There's a lot of scope for failure there. But if she manages…"
Roper chuckles darkly. "Kids have every advantage. People ignore them. They underestimate them. She's the one who spotted you with Colson and his priest. She's good at finding what she's looking for. It's just a matter now of not tipping someone off if she's following them and getting closer, and knowing how to fucking read what she's looking at. Everything means something. She likely already knows more than she thinks she does. Her survival depends on it." His voice goes a little darker, something distant in his tone. "When you don't have fucking anyone that's gonna give a shit about whether you live or die, you learn how to take care of yourself, how to stay ahead of the game. You don't let them win."
"Let's give her a chance, then. Just give her the information we have, to start with," Syarra says, straightening up and checking over the new bandage. "Then she can do… whatever it is she needs to do to make sure she doesn't end up as spare parts."
Roper reaches his hands for Syarra's, seemingly satisfied with the bandage. "You worried about this kid, or worried about losing a potential spy." It's not asked like a question but it probably is.
"I don't even know her," Syarra says, which is almost an answer. She rests her hands in his, then continues, "I just don't want to send her in to fail. We don't have so many allies that we can throw them away."
"If she's the kind who is going to fail this kind of assignment she'd be a useless ally anyway. But you don't even know her, and there's still something…" Roper pulls her in closer, watching her face like it's doing something interesting. "It's like I said. Street kids learn to tell the difference between someone who gives a shit and who doesn't. You want loyalty? Give them that. Actually care, and your battle is halfway fucking over already. So. Do you care what happens to this kid you don't even know except that she's following me, for some reason. Or do you think you might care, if you knew her."
"I don't think I…" Syarra stops, thinking over her words. "Do you care about her?"
Roper sets Syarra's hands behind his neck, before he reaches behind her to find the end of her braid. "I won't hurt a fucking kid." His hands clench briefly, and there's something on his face, almost vulnerable before it's blinked away. "I'd kill someone trying to hurt them. I care that way. They know it. But about who they are rather than what they are? No." Roper meets her eyes and there's something dangerous and serious in them. "I don't give a fuck. But. If she's not out there waiting to stab me, and if she agrees to be my personal spy? Then we'll see." He raises his brows as he tries to get the end of the braid untied. "So. Do you."
"It's the principle of the thing, I think," Syarra says, and if she seems uncertain about this answer, it's only because she's chosen to let her expression show. She clasps her hands together, behind his neck. "I don't care about her. I don't know her. But I do not like the idea of setting someone up deliberately to fail. So maybe… I could. Someday."
"Assuming she doesn't try to kill me, I'll be setting her up to succeed," Roper rasps, as he unties the braid and slowly begins finger combing it out piece by piece. "Fixing the mistakes she's making. Same as with fucking Mourn. Although in her case, she's already better. If she hadn't fucked up the timing twice on her judgment of my line of sight with the hood, she would have pulled it off for that short walk." Roper makes a noncommittal expression. "But at the end of the day, the only way to learn how to survive the game is to play it." He flicks his brows up. "You could be her practice target. She'll need one. How good are you at spotting your own tail?"
"I've… never really practiced?" Syarra shakes her head slightly to loosen the braid. "I see Kas sometimes, but I think it's usually when he intends it? But then again Shattrath street children are probably going to start somewhere very different from Farstrider veterans in terms of skill."
"You'd think," Roper says, his fingers moving with deft, gentle motions through her hair. "But sometimes it's just about how badly someone wants it. Your tail's survival doesn't depend on eluding you. You catch sight of him, nothing happens. For a kid on the street, you learn real fucking quick that you fuck up with the wrong person, and you're in for pain or death. She's already taking a huge fucking risk thinking she can follow me around."
"I could look for her, then," Syarra says. "How much deterrence does she need if she fails?"
Roper shrugs. "We'll see. Don't know her well enough yet."
"Then you set her on me, and if things go well we set her on this warlock," Syarra says, leaning forward to rest her forehead against Roper's.
Roper smiles. "Mmhm." He slouches back against the table. His voice has a dry rasp to it as he works her hair into some sort of twist, seemingly for no other reason than to feel it. "In the meantime, I hunt down a Knight, get us into Quel'danas to meet with the tailor so she can enchant your armor where people can see her doing it, choreograph a dance for the dead, and train a former paladin to stop being such a fucking unsubtle paladin so he can stalk his obsession without embarrassing all of us. Just a few things everywhere." He exhales an amused sound, and if not for how close they are, it might have been inaudible, as he murmurs, "Missed you."
Syarra closes her eyes as he speaks, her face falling back to blankness. "We can work together for part of it, this week. Retaking the Sunwell. It's just… they'll know we're on the right side. I'll wear a tabard."
"Which one?"
"Hm," Syarra opens her eyes to look at him. "Ebon Blade should be obvious from the saronite. Maybe Coterie? Or I'll just pick one, depending on who I expect to see that day."
Roper laughs quietly, and sets his right hand against her back to pull her slightly closer. "That's what I like about you."
"What's that?" She asks, relaxing against him.
"Thinking about how to play the angles, staying flexible, knowing how to make them see just what you want them to see." Roper's voice alters, coming close to Syarra's accent and cadence, though he doesn't bother shifting his tone. "'Only glitter and glitz enough to not draw attention by the lack of it.'"
Syarra is startled into a brief laugh. "I should be careful what I say around you. That's uncanny every time." She doesn't seem concerned at all.
"I told you what I was," Roper drawls. "And that I was fucking good at it. But," he loops her hair around his left hand. "When you're in a room with a spy, you're always giving away information. The good ones just know how to read it, and how to use it." He lets her hair fall gently around his hand. "Theris is close to one. Be careful around him. Someone's trained him, Alaisa probably."
"Hm," Syarra shifts slightly against him, getting comfortable. "I don't think I've spoken to him since he… settled, so I don't really have that much of an accurate read on him. He was quiet, before, but that makes sense."
"Yeah, he knew how to set up an operation for a stake out and how to observe someone. Not beginner shit either. He's definitely someone who knows how to fade out and make people think he isn't listening, but he might also know how to use the information, and that's the potential danger." Roper relaxes more, moving his arm up to touch the back of her right shoulder. "I can use that he thinks there's a debt between us, but he doesn't like me, and I'm not going to be able to change his mind."
"Why wouldn't he?" Syarra sounds puzzled. "His sister is fond of you, and you've done so much to help him… or is that it? Pride?"
Roper laughs, but there's something cold to it. "Lots of people fucking wouldn't. Like I said, I'm rarely the best fucking choice to make an asset. In this case though, worst possible first impressions on both sides."
"Then it was your contempt for his choices?" Syarra asks. "And your stopping him from following through, on his side? I can guess what happened from context, but it's only a guess."
"Doesn't really matter. He's willing to cooperate, and that's all I fucking need from him."
"I could see if I could make a better impression," She shrugs gently, "or just make sure I'm guarded enough when I'm around him that he doesn't get anything significant."
"If he's loyal to the Ebon Blade that's good. If he's loyal to you personally, that's even better." Roper shrugs. "I don't matter. That's not what a Shadow is for."
"I'll put it on the list, then," she says, tightening her arms around his neck, but not enough to hurt.
"Now, I should be getting my glider, or talking to the kid, but," Roper grins and it's audible in his voice. "I'm not going to. I'm gonna stay here until it's fucking Wednesday." He doesn't move, although he draws a line down Syarra's back with his left hand, tapping a beat. "[May I have this dance?]" It's almost accentless, as though he's been practicing.
Syarra shifts back, pulling him with her away from the table. She doesn't seem to mind that they're not in formal wear or that her hair is something of a mess. In slow, faintly Silvermoon-accented Thalassian, she answers,"[Yes, Roper, any dance that you want.]"