Pirates of the Hard Nox [Open]

Emryk could do little more than offer his time and attention. He gave a nod at Juniper's words, chest squaring as he leaned back upon the crate with crossed arms and furrowed his brow, trying his best to understand the journey that had been told to him by Juniper. It was different than his own-- contrary to her own desires, he had left his manor to truly be himself, to show who he was before the Fae and reclaim his birthright-- but there was, perhaps, an echoed similitude in their plights.

"Perhaps the identity you sought to escape was not yours at all." He offered. "And each of the faces you might have put on in turn-- be they friendly, hostile, or something in-between-- were equally as dysphoric." Emryk's glance drifted, for a moment, and he touched a hand to his chin in thought as he considered his next words, a soft huff falling from his nostrils. "Though what is life, indeed, if not a series of masks? The self we show to others is hardly the self we allow ourselves to reckon with, Juniper. Harder still is to find the self that is truest to that which we believe ourselves to be." He stepped forward, now, and offered a hand upon the girl's shoulder-- a soft grip, paternal.

"Think not of who you were, Juniper, but who you wish to be. Perhaps that is why you left-- not to escape what you believed to be your truest self, but to find it."

His hand withdrew, allowing the girl to slump against the wall. His steps returned him to the crate, allowing her distance to grieve, to lament. She was afraid-- uncertain. Rather than interrogate her further, he simply nodded, looking away. Her family was dead. It was her fault. Both were her own cross to bear; each member of the Hard Nox seemed to carry a darkened passenger upon their shoulder, it seemed. Himself included, though it was hardly worse than the rest. If it was indeed true that he did not belong here, then he would allow himself the chance to leave a passing mark before it was his time to leave.

Heart of loam.

"My mother died of sickness when I was a young boy." Emryk replied, candidly. To distract her from her tears, the baron spoke of his own grief, tentative as his tone seemed to be. "I couldn't have been... older than seventeen, really. The-- plague from the mines, whatever was in the air, it-- it had become too much for her lungs to bear. Even with our money, the doctors from the Empire claimed they could do nothing." His hand tightened around the border of the crate, at that. "Sometimes, I am still unsure if I believe them."

He digressed. With a sigh, he looked back to Juniper, eyes as tired as hers-- though they carried no tears. The time to grieve had long since past. Only scars remained, now, numbed and cursed with phantom pain. "For the longest time, I blamed my father for not trying hard enough. I resented him. I acted out-- I picked fights with the workers around the estate, I-- left to go drinking in bars and traveled to port cities to beat men senseless in pits. I lashed out against the mining company-- I was jailed. I was beaten." A hand wiped at his chin, rubbing there for a moment. "My father, to make up for my lapse in judgement, took on more shifts at the mine. Worked himself senseless to provide for me, pay my bail, clothe me when I returned. He..."

A breath, at that. For a moment, he didn't speak-- only stared off beyond Juniper, averting his eyes for a moment.

"... he took up my shifts, that I neglected. Went to work in my stead. And I let him, because I was angry, and I thought he deserved it. I thought he deserved to... suffer, for what happened to my mother."

His words were shaky. Still, no tears. He looked away, shaking his head.

"And when he took an evening shift that was meant for me, the-- mine collapsed. Something with the powder barrels they'd taken. A full cave-in; for hours, they sat in there, while the overseers did... nothing." There was a venom in that last word, as he grit his teeth and the crate beneath him creaked. "Nothing, they just... they just-- stood there, saying there was nothing they could do, that digging would risk killing their excavators. And so I had to wait there, listening to the sound of my father and his men as they..."

Emryk shook his head, closing his eyes.

"I never told him I was sorry, Juniper. I never apologized for my actions-- I'd never told him how much... guilt I feel, every day of my life, for what had happened to them both. And I never will." His citrine gaze fell upon Juniper once more, slightly glossed with the threat of tears. He tightened his jaw, and gave another breath. "That is why it is so important that we do better. For them. For all the people in your life that have fallen, or given their lives for your own. For all the lives you have taken, whether with intent or by accident." A pause, at that. "For her, Juniper. For your family."

His arms crossed once more, and his body gave a great sigh, as if some burdened weight had been lifted from his chest.

"It is our burden to live well, for those who can live no longer." Once more, he rubbed at his chin, a single thumb tracing along the spines there. "That is our blessing, and our curse. We must be better. We must. So that one day, if your family were to see you, they would be proud."

Once more, the Baron listened-- this time, settling down upon a nearby bench beside a batch of rotted leathers. He leaned forward, elbows upon his knees, chin clasped in both hands as he nodded along to her words. His attention was rapt; his gaze was stoic, but the gloss remained, focused upon the girl as she reopened old wounds to bear before him.

"You tried to help, and you hurt instead." He muttered, knurled brow furrowed as he observed the change in eye color. He knew not why it changed, but did it matter?


"What do you mean?" Emryk inquired, tone soft-- gentle. "You can say whatever you like here, Juniper. If you wish, then I shall carry it to the earth with me."

"Okay."

It was all he could offer. The concept of a changeling was utterly novel; he was aware of the different races and factions surrounding the Floating Isles and the Al-Ashtavan Isles, of course, but specific folkloric or biological idiosyncracies were beyond him. Truthfully, he almost felt a bit rude for not knowing-- but an apology wouldn't do much, and so he held his tongue. Listening. Watching. She had replaced a child within a house that wasn't hers. It was an awful word, replacement, to describe a living and breathing child. For a moment, he steepled his hands and placed them before his face, looking away to think upon the girl's confession.

"Is it merely the eyes that shift?" He asked, after a moment. "Juniper-- I understand you feel guilt, for... thinking yourself as some replacement. But your mother, your father, they-- raised you as their own. They loved you." The baron's gaze found hers again, and he offered a remorseful glint to his eye. "Even if it was not wholly you, there are shades in every mask you don. Echoes of the true self exist in the false-- and only you can decide who that is."

He held his gaze a moment longer, then crossed his arms. "... and if you do not know who that is for certain-- try to tell me, show me, who you believe yourself to be. Who you wish to find-- the Juniper that is, and will be."

Emryk's eyes seemed to raise, at that, and he gave a tilt of his head as he imagined Juniper as an Al-Ashtavahk. An odd sight to behold, for sure, but-- did it cause discomfort? He truly tried to grapple with the feeling, for a moment, and found that he really quite didn't know. She was still Juniper, no matter what form she took. In a practical sense, it was akin to putting on an outfit for her, he supposed. Or perhaps not, given the crisis of identity.

Rather than probe her with more uncomfortable questions, however, the baron stood and moved closer-- not wanting the girl to feel as if he were keeping his distance. He knelt down before her, and offered a hand, feigning a smile that sought to comfort. "Whoever you choose to be, Juniper," He spoke, voice taking that reserved gentility once more. "I know you shall be good. Because that is who you are, independent of face, or body, or title."

A swift pause dotted that statement, and he truly hoped it helped.

"To live is to be, Juniper. Because your life might have been meant for another does not make it any less yours. Every face you might have taken, every job you might have held... they were you, in a way. You retain that experience-- you retain that memory. Core to you, in a way nobody shall ever take from you." His smile softened even further, and his eyes gave a knowing crease. The cold she might have seen in the parlor had faded, now, to that memorable warmth and soothing tone. "Know that your path-- your true identity, and who you wish to become-- is yours alone to walk. Nobody shall decide that for you." His other hand, having rested upon his knee, gestured back to the manor. "But those around you-- who you surround yourself with-- may help guide you all the same. Though you may have left your old life, and the one after that, they are as much a part of you as the Juniper that is here."

His hand dropped. "And though you may not believe it, you have family. In them. In me."