[ Up, incautious, hurried along by the need to burn excess energy before the bile of hurt can burn into anger, is a much faster trek than down had been. Creatures skitter in the dark just out of Viktor's view, making themselves known, but not daring to approach. He notes that intelligence, the caution, as he climbs back up through the long, winding cave, bathed in the green light of Emet-Selch's torches. He will perhaps want to know, may have an idea of safety measures that can be applied. As it stands, once Viktor can see where the narrow path ends in a larger room he turns and Creates another wall, rougher than the fine thing Emet-Selch had made with a thought, and a flat, heavy iron door.
In the root cellar, it is easy enough to move the shelf back into place. On the way out, Viktor grabs a jar of pickles and a small roll of hard cheese, fully intending to eat his feelings. It winds up being a good idea for other reasons.
A guard stops him in the hall by the kitchens, and he cops sheepishly to sneaking down to the root cellar to steal a snack. He buys the guard's silence with a charming smile and one stolen pickle, and then has an idea.
Into the kitchen he goes, trading a sweet story about being tired and hungry (and another pickle, only tentatively accepted) for a plate of tea cakes from the girls in the kitchen prepping for tomorrow's breakfast. Then, to the throne room, entry for which costs him only a bit of soft laughter at a joke that he doesn't quite get, not being from this shard, and two more pickles, plus the cheese.
Hard to hold onto his anger, he finds, when so many people are so easily pleased by a strange viera, wandering "lost" through the halls of a castle at night. He learns a few names, coaxes smiles from tired, dour guards, and helps himself to the last pickle on his winding journey to their quarters.
In the castle's great hall, on a whim, he pulls a few threads, weakening the left two legs of the lordling's throne. Amused with himself, he does the same in the dining hall, weakening the wood on the seat he assumes the lordling uses to take his meals. A bit of mischief eases what's left of the anger in his heart, and finally he makes an earnest beeline back, tea cakes and empty pickle jar in hand.
He doesn't think to feel awkward until he's right outside the door. Hurt still lingers, makes itself known with a dull pang chased by shame - shame at how readily he wishes to put this away, to forget about the gnawing doubt and pretend this is all fine. With the sort of sobriety usually reserved for facing down primals, Viktor lets himself into the room - their room. He half expects to find the room empty, cold. It is not, and the relief he feels is embarrassingly immeasurable. ]
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In the root cellar, it is easy enough to move the shelf back into place. On the way out, Viktor grabs a jar of pickles and a small roll of hard cheese, fully intending to eat his feelings. It winds up being a good idea for other reasons.
A guard stops him in the hall by the kitchens, and he cops sheepishly to sneaking down to the root cellar to steal a snack. He buys the guard's silence with a charming smile and one stolen pickle, and then has an idea.
Into the kitchen he goes, trading a sweet story about being tired and hungry (and another pickle, only tentatively accepted) for a plate of tea cakes from the girls in the kitchen prepping for tomorrow's breakfast. Then, to the throne room, entry for which costs him only a bit of soft laughter at a joke that he doesn't quite get, not being from this shard, and two more pickles, plus the cheese.
Hard to hold onto his anger, he finds, when so many people are so easily pleased by a strange viera, wandering "lost" through the halls of a castle at night. He learns a few names, coaxes smiles from tired, dour guards, and helps himself to the last pickle on his winding journey to their quarters.
In the castle's great hall, on a whim, he pulls a few threads, weakening the left two legs of the lordling's throne. Amused with himself, he does the same in the dining hall, weakening the wood on the seat he assumes the lordling uses to take his meals. A bit of mischief eases what's left of the anger in his heart, and finally he makes an earnest beeline back, tea cakes and empty pickle jar in hand.
He doesn't think to feel awkward until he's right outside the door. Hurt still lingers, makes itself known with a dull pang chased by shame - shame at how readily he wishes to put this away, to forget about the gnawing doubt and pretend this is all fine. With the sort of sobriety usually reserved for facing down primals, Viktor lets himself into the room - their room. He half expects to find the room empty, cold. It is not, and the relief he feels is embarrassingly immeasurable. ]
They had some leftover c-cakes in the kitchens.