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serafim is from the vale — he knows a thing or two about gilded towers and the ways of the powerful. for example: to reach a hand out to someone, they must first be below you.[break][break]

conversely: to accept the hand, then, is to know your place.[break][break]

so he's unsurprised by the graceless nature of his entrance, hauled in through the main entrance for the floor, with metal biting at his wrists and a firm grasp on each arm. the blood on his hand is trying its very best to dry, but with the way he keeps moving, it's having a hard time. not that he's noticing, really.[break][break]

serafim counts the floors from the fifty-first. it's higher than he's ever been, and something about it utterly fascinates him. he doesn't hide it, either; his gaze wanders, even if he doesn't move from where he's directed to go. for someone who had seemingly launched a reckless, hopeless attack against the high priest, he's rather docile. he tilts his head obligingly when the tagging gun is pressed against his neck, doesn't pull away when he feels it pierce through skin, doesn't do anything but blink slowly at the flare of fury from axius as the familiar registers what has just happened.[break][break]

oh, relax. what is this, your first time?[break][break]

a slither of scales against scales; his mind's eye sees the restless coiling of a serpentine body. is this what you wanted?[break][break]

better than the alternative, hm?[break][break]

serafim raises his hand and waits for the nearest attendant to look over. "question." a smile. "isn't this a little overkill? i'm clearly not going anywhere."[break][break]

five minutes later, the cuffs are sitting on the corner of yvonne's table, and the only sounds within the reception is the low chatter between attendants as they flick through security feeds, and the whirr of the coffee machine running.[break][break]

he makes four cups — the last is, oddly enough, not something he's particularly paying attention to until the machine switches off and he notices what he's done. bringing them out to the front with a single unbloodied hand is another problem altogether, but he's done worse before. he offers the attendants their coffees, sets the spare by the far edge of the table nearest to the office's glass walls, and sips at his own drink.[break][break]

the events of the scylla banquet hall play out over the monitors. serafim watches from over an attendant's shoulder — distracted, at first, between scanning the crowd for ulla sutherland, watching the mezzanine, and curiously studying what he can see of dmitri's office in the dark.[break][break]

then, of course, he hears a gasp and a muttered curse, an attendant saying to the other, see, i told you, riker would—[break][break]

his attention does not stray from the muted monitors for the entirety of the fight.



not, at least, until the fight draws to a close; until he can no longer see the transfigurer's mangled body; until he sees the brief flicker of the spymaster making a graceful exit through a slip of shadow; until he sees dmitri wisbane, too, take his leave.[break][break]

the attendants confer among themselves; serafim contemplates making more coffee. he doesn't get the chance — the elevator chimes, the door flies open, and dmitri wisbane says, what is this?[break][break]

serafim blinks. says, a little distractedly, "coffee…?"[break][break]

already, the attendants are explaining, well, he wasn't—

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he's watching the crow.[break][break]

or, more specifically, his attention rotates between the glint in the crow's eye and a spot five inches to her left, where a careless splash of scarlet rests against the curve of a throat. he's only half-listening, expecting to be dismissed alongside the attendants, until—[break][break]

out.[break][break]

look up.[break][break]

serafim looks up. for a moment, he remembers the way fish scatter when a shadow falls over them, silver scales flashing like slivers of ice, struck into a panicked frenzy to flee; he thinks, briefly, that this is what they must feel like, pinned by the weight of something thoroughly intangible — fear, desire, instinct, what's the difference, anyway?[break][break]

it's more of a tilt of the head than a nod, but he steps inside the office.



he almost winces, when the lights come on. as dmitri begins slamming open drawers in search of something, serafim's all too glad that he emptied the rest of the healing potion into his coffee earlier — the noise might've killed him otherwise, never mind anything else dmitri has planned.[break][break]

his gaze wanders as he waits, four steps before the desk, hands politely clasped in front of him. he notes, a little absently, the iron tang of blood he can still smell in the air, and the view of delphi from the windows behind the desk. from up here, the city is unfamiliar — he traces odd, winding back alleys in his mind's eye, and considers a hazy memory of flooded canals and white stone walls.[break][break]

so, dmitri says, and serafim remembers where he is. it's a little funny, he thinks — when he had heard the news of dmitri wisbane taking over sybaris, he never thought he'd see this, much less under these circumstances.[break][break]

he is, again, watching the crow.[break][break]

"not that much," he says, honest. "only that something has been moved to the vale, that there were arrangements being made to secure arms—" rumors travel fast, in pegasus. "—and that sybaris was banned from the program in eclipse that happened today."[break][break]

a small shrug. he hasn't pried much into the happenings of sybaris beyond what has been freely offered in the oracle or by hearsay, though he doubts dmitri is interested in the idle chatter that floats around pegasus park.[break][break]

besides, he's been playing by the rules. there's nothing incriminating in what he knows of sybaris's workings — not here, anyway, in the office of the man who gave the order. it doesn't worry him, not as much as…[break][break]

here, a flicker of discomfort. "she, uh—"[break][break]

a blink; he bites his tongue. he forces his expression to settle; says, more smoothly, "lady ulla sutherland. she was my mentor for a number of years before i left and came to delphi."[break][break]

the story between the lines is simple enough to piece together. an orphan catches the eye of someone searching for talent; a stray is poisoned by its gilded cage; a wild animal remembers how to run, and so they do.[break][break]

it is a careful answer. honest, by the book; he offers only what was asked. serafim's cards are on the table — he waits for the devil's play.

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there's a little back and forth between the crow and witch that he doesn't quite get; nevermind the scoff, he missed the memo somewhere, he thinks. mentor, and organisation — the planes of his expression relax, apprehension giving way to something more resembling curiosity — they're talking about ulla, are they?[break][break]

he's betting on dmitri's disinterest to gloss over the topic. there are other things worth the high priest's attention right now than a single player in the politics of a drowning city. a gamble; this round goes in serafim's favour, for now. the relief is palpable.[break][break]

dmitri waves. serafim sits as prompted. not perched on the edge, not poised to run.[break][break]

there is a look exchanged between dmitri and maggie — it is mirrored in a shadow, in a sigh of scales in the back of his mind. this is the part where you listen closely.[break][break]

he does. it's a sloughing of snake skin: the line of the mouth loses that carefully curated upwards tick, the gaze flattens, grows sharper. he almost seems to relax — it's as counterintuitive as it is natural. yes, it's his life on the line here at the negotiation table, and it could be lost just like that, but isn't that the point?[break][break]

that the game has been named, that cards have been revealed, that pieces are moving, himself among them — he's not quite half as fond of the game as a certain few friends, but he knows that as long as he survives to the other side, then he may still stand a chance.[break][break]

to?[break][break]

one step at a time. let's walk out of here alive first, okay?[break][break]

…thirteen and counting.[break][break]

negotiations always move quick, with serafim. it's to be expected, really. he's not a religious type, so he never pauses to pray. he's a hunting hound cut loose, a knife without a handle, a sound in a tunnel that echoed for so long it grew a voice of its own. there's an unfurling of something behind his ribs that he always thinks of as animal, and beasts like that don't know sin, do they? what's another deal with the devil but a step towards another day? survive, or don't. say yes, or breathe your last before you leave the room.[break][break]

eleven.[break][break]

come on, ax. no need to keep counting. do you really think i'm going to say anything else?[break][break]

his gaze drops briefly to the floor, skimming over each engraved oath. "i did say i was going to do things by the book," he agrees lightly, simple as that.[break][break]

"i wouldn't mind a hand surviving the fallout, though…"[break][break]

there's a lot of names behind those banners, he knows, and his confessions aren't exactly going to win him any favours. his gaze drops to the hand on the table, the blood-covered watch. ten minutes.[break][break]

maybe seeing riker's blacks and golds have him feeling a certain way, reminds him of the cavalry; makes him homesick in the same way a knife misses a wound. "…and can i come with?"

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half-formed grin meets a mirrored baring of teeth. he doesn't expect anything more, of course. where's the fun in that? he wants a chance, not a golden ticket, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't fancy the thought of at least some challenge. there's no point otherwise, of course — he needs to cut his teeth, make his mark somewhere, use his own name. isn't that what this is all about?[break][break]

the terms, he'll admit, are more generous than he expects. it shows — he lets it show — in the way his eyes widen ever so slightly, eyebrows slanting upwards, though his reply is controlled.[break][break]

"thank you, i appreciate it."[break][break]

well, he more than appreciates it, and again, there's the sliver of something familiar that bleeds through, a sort of youthful enthusiasm that lights up his eyes in the strangest of ways. yes, the implications of dmitri's words are not missed. remember, this is a rule that serafim judges others by: to reach a hand out to someone, they must first be below you.[break][break]

so, to be "set up somewhere" means that he doesn't have his regular selection of "somewheres", that his life masquerading as selwyn's shadow — which is most of it — is about to violently uprooted, that he will no longer have a place for a while. his choices are slim, really, and part of him says that this would be a considerate thing to do, at least to avoid drawing unwelcome visitors to a friend's place. on the other hand, it's a very simple decision. dmitri makes an offer, and serafim thinks, why not?[break][break]

he'd shake on it, too, if not for the pause, for the laugh. the acceptance doesn't change, though, and it's clear as day in the way he grins — not a hungry smile, not even a particularly daring one. it's easy, and it reaches his eyes, because dmitri says he hasn't changed at all, to which serafim can only say: [break][break]

"just a bit, really."[break][break]

it's true, too. many of the little things haven't changed: the way he still watches dmitri's every move intently, that he doesn't quite need the warning because he anticipates it almost all the while. he has to reach up to catch it, of course, and the weight of it surprises him, but his grasp doesn't waver, and there's something telling in the firmness of the overhead catch that, in that familiar curious-but-not-quite way, that there's more to the well-dressed pleasant demeanour that meets the eye.[break][break]

or, well. the blood along his sleeves ruins the illusion a little, but those things run thin under the crow's watchful eyes anyway. besides, they've come this far. [break][break]

"i'm aware," serafim says, first. then, without hesitation, he says, "of course."[break][break]

there's a thin line between confidence and
madness. serafim has long since forgotten how to tell the difference, but it's not arrogance. arrogance, you see, is believing you'll come out on the other side of things unscathed. confidence, maybe, is an offering that serafim makes for others — confident in dmitri's ability to see the night through, for instance. madness, then, is something like an extension of it: that against every other shred of better judgement, he's walking alongside dmitri, marvelling at the strangeness of the empty towers. he wonders, briefly, if this was how it felt after the takeover. [break][break]

he says, quietly, not wanting to distract, "is there anyone in particular you think has remained...?"[break][break]

he's holding the cannister in one hand, and the other thumbs at the handle of the cane restlessly. beneath his skin, axius is writhing, watchful. it's familiar, the ache of teeth before a hunt, just as axius scents the promise of blood. he wants out.

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every step echoes — it's the first thing he notices. the towers are empty, and the cold is only becoming all the more unmistakeable. he's spinning the canister in his palm, the promise of magic burning into his palm, listening:[break][break]

just one person?[break][break]

who?[break][break]

is that not what you want to find out?[break][break]

is it?[break][break]

the goal is secondary, no? he isn't here for an answer to understanding whatever dmitri is doing; he wants only to earn his place at the table. [break][break]

abnormal pleasures kill the taste for normal ones — he fights the urge to trail a hand along a jagged line of ice, silently marvelling at the way the banquet hall's dim lights continue to glint off its surfaces. [break][break]

( out at sea, the ice moves. in the dead of night, it sings, it cries, it groans like a great, dying beast. the glacier-corpse holds a spectre within it still — the ice lives, out there, and in here. )[break][break]

dmitri stops walking. serafim, too, pauses and follows the pointed gesture. "oh?"[break][break]

no, correction:[break][break]

between one moment and the next, axius is there, unspooling from shadow, scarlet eyes wide and alert. the familiar moves viper-quick, before serafim even rounds the corner, FROST BREATH spiralling in bone-bright ribbons from open jaws.[break][break]

there's no motion to recall the familiar, nor a single shred of hesitance in striking first. filth teaches filth, after all; gold corrodes, and serafim lost his taste for glory an age ago.

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it's quick, messy. axius is a graceless creature — efficient, but in a way that is telling of his less-than-natural origins, an amalgamation of nature's predators in a shape sewn together by a child's monstrous imaginings. [break][break]

serafim rounds the corner a split-second behind dmitri, but he knows the end result of the encounter already — the shadow sensation of the frantic pulse of a vein against his teeth, of something slippery down his throat, of the weight of a body going limp and cold in his grasp. [break][break]

[break]

a blink; his brows furrow ever so slightly. "sorry," he says, not sounding particularly sorry at all, at the same time axius swivels around to regard the crow. the dragon's head tilts.[break][break]

"a pleasure to meet you both," axius says pleasantly, flicking a drop of blood off the end of his tail before he glides to serafim's side.[break][break]

the familiar follows more sedately now, claws clicking lightly against the floor. his scarlet eyes are bright, alert, excited.[break][break]

neater?[break][break]

you don't really do neat, though.[break][break]

but you do, don't you?[break][break]

serafim is a few paces behind as dmitri and maggie begin to descend, which is to say that he only reacts because he sees the flicker of a reaction in the crow's posture, the subtle flare of flight-feathers, the glint in a dark eye — it's all he needs.[break][break]

"it's the floor," is all he says, but he's already leapt off the side of the staircase, sprouting feathered wings of his own. a nod from axius clarifies his words: there are alchemical circles etched into the floors and walls of the corridor, ambitious entrapments from witches with little to lose. he flies over them smoothly; axius skirts them more cautiously.[break][break]

after all, when you're backed into a corner and you know there's no real way out of this grave you've dug for yourself, you start to think: why not?[break][break]

serafim would know.[break][break]

he rounds the corner of the room after maggie. he's agile, quick; there's a mastery over the wings that speaks to practice. he's thinking, what sort of last-ditch attempts would a bunch of bitter, cornered witches make?[break][break]

there are a dozen different possibilities that come to mind, and they are all narrowed down in a split-second. a WALL slams shut immediately as he clears the threshold of the room, clearly attempting to split the threat.[break][break]

serafim?[break][break]

don't get caught in the crossfire.[break][break]

he meets two pairs of surprised eyes. they're both dressed in black and gold, and serafim remembers their faces among riker's entourage. they were expecting someone else, obviously — it's a recurring trend by now, no? ah well, no matter.[break][break]

no one that sees him can live, after all. ice gathers between his fingers; he takes aim, careful to avoid maggie, and lets them fly.[break][break]

on the other side of the wall, the dragon gives dmitri a sideways, quizzical glance.

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the wings are, indeed, familiar. they flare now in a flicker surprise, careful to avoid jostling maggie just as she had been careful in her landing. serafim calls the ice back to him at the last second, letting them settle between his fingers instead as he pivots.[break][break]

his head tilts slightly. he does the math. there is no possibility that both of them will leave this building alive, naturally, and after all the work he's done to get here…[break][break]

it's mostly curiosity, then, that drives him to give the cauldrons more than a cursory glance. "hi. wrong room," he says, but he's already stepping backwards, moving towards the HOMUNCULI.[break][break]

he gestures with the DAGGER at the homunculi, dutifully keeping both witch and creation within his line of sight. "are these imbued?" it's an almost idle question; he isn't as familiar with the realm of fire and light, but his mind spins with possibilities. a barrier to split familiar from witch, a holy bomb to burn the crow, aquapyra to melt the ice…[break][break]

it's partly a distraction, partly genuine: he's tracing the beginnings of an EQUIFORCE circle with his back foot as he moves, ready to spring into action at the slightest move.

---

on the other side of the wall, axius lingers only at the wall for a moment longer before he follows dmitri, carefully skirting the markings on the floor again. the runic markings are unfamiliar to him, but he has spent his fair share of time recently as serafim's sole magical co-experimenter to grow familiar with even the theory of the magic.[break][break]

even the alchemy — even the potions, the hermetic circles. he thinks it's awfully tedious, of course, but he's polite enough to bite down on his boredom. let the monster play at human arts, he supposes; everyone likes to believe they are capable of making something anew.[break][break]

the serpent rises onto his hind legs, peering at the markings. a long tail sways for balance; the scarlet eyes that run even down his neck seem to be on high alert, looking in a dozen different directions at once. [break][break]

"i believe it looks like a container," axius offers quietly. there is something curious about the resonance of the familiar's voice — something faraway and musical, like whalesong from underwater, like there are two sounds competing for space on that forked tongue.[break][break]

a tilt of the head, crow-like. "or… a trap with a ricochet effect on its interior."