➵ SOULS & ECHOES

[shootyourshot]

The fall of snow is so gentle despite how dangerously cold it is outside. It isn't quite a blizzard, but it is like a blanket of white falling down, muffling the sound and beautifully quiet. There shouldn't be anything out here new or unusual, as there has not been for ages.

Yet, on this evening, there is a light in the distance that Sylvain will see. A dim lantern, hanging in the middle of the snow, like it'd always been there. It is more than staked into the earth, as if somehow it'd grown out like a plant and made its life there.

Half-buried in the snow is the lithe form of a man with pale hair. A ragged hood is covering his head, his arms and legs armored -- yet the rest of him is wearing clothing that was once, perhaps, elegant yet has been worn away. By use or age, it's difficult to say.

Clutched in one hand is a wickedly curved blade, and in the other a pistol. Not that Sylvain would have seen one before.

Comments

[sonofagautier]

Sylvain reflexively squeezes his shoulder as if he could comfort Ashe. He doesn't know what is plaguing Ashe, but clearly it's something.

"What nightmare? Did you come here seeking asylum from something?" He asks as he guides Ashe to take a seat by the fire. Sylvain sits down before it as well, and finally removes the wolf-like helm from his head. His shock of red hair comes loose, uneven and curling at the edges. His skin is deathly pale, deep lines around his eyes that seem just slightly inhuman. Some of it has to do with the unnatural brightness to his irises, which shine a deep copper. The rest is that they're nearly black around the sclera, such a dark gray one might think they were from a corpse.

He doesn't behave as if this should frighten or unnerve Ashe. Like it's perfectly normal. He simply watches Ashe with a concerned expression.

[shootyourshot]

The fire is a nice difference to the cold. With a shiver, Ashe sits and looks up at Sylvain. The hair is... actually beautiful, even if the rest of him gives him signs of a lack of humanity. Yet, he's not a beast, either. There's something else going on that he can't quite put his finger on.

Ah. Right. He-- he was asked a question.

"I don't think so. Not exactly." It's not a good answer, but-- "I was trying to go somewhere else. Somewhere not Yharnam."

[sonofagautier]

Sylvain tilts his head, the name 'Yharnam' isn't familiar to him. Though he's never been to the lands further east than Londor, he's seen enough maps and he can't recall a single instance of Yharnam.

"You're a strange one," he says, expression unreadable at first before a smile spreads his lips. There's something of an idea forming. He has a suspicion about Ashe he thinks he might confirm with something as simple as a map. "I've not heard of Yharnam, but."

Sylvain picks himself up, and rummages through an old set of shelves set with various cookbooks and tools. He plucks a folded piece of parchment from between the leaves of a book and comes back to Ashe. Unfolding it reveals a map that has most of the old spice roads mapped out. It's not perfect, but it's a map nonetheless.

"We're here," he says as he taps a finger to the top of a western mountain range. Irithyll is dotted inside a region scrawled out as 'The Boreal Valley.' "So where abouts is Yharnam, or wherever you were trying to go?"

[shootyourshot]

Curiously, he watches Sylvain for a moment as the large man goes through his various books. Idly, he wonders what might be in them, but he has no time to wonder as the map is revealed to him.

Ashe frowns as he looks over the map and he tries to think. Where is Yharnam on this map? Nothing looks familiar. Nothing at all. Ashe himself was a stranger to Yharnam, where was he before then? Where did he live before?

The train of thought ends up in nothing and he winces for a moment, rubbing his forehead until he shakes his head.

"I... don't see it on there. Or Castle Cainhurst. But both would be hard to miss." Ashe shakes his head. "I don't think I was trying to go anywhere particular at this point. There isn't much left in Yharnam, save for a handful of survivors."

[sonofagautier]

Hm. 'Cainhurst' sounds a bit like 'Cairm' but certainly not enough for Sylvain to say the two are related. And a castle doesn't quite describe the temples that dot the shadowy lands of Cairm.

Sylvain sets a hand on Ashe's back, noting how he seems to be in pain for a moment. The concern is plain on his face, and he leans a little closer.

"Well, this is the all of the known world. My world anyway. I'm starting to suspect you might be like one of my knights, Sirris, who hails from a country of another world called the Sunless Realms. I wonder if you might be a phantom, called here for some purpose."

Sylvain refolds the map, and sets it back into the old book.

"But you also must be exhausted. You seem a bit unwell, and I'd be a terrible host to make you suffer it on your feet. I... I apologize that this isn't precisely the most welcoming place. It's near impossible to reach Irithyll, so guests aren't exactly frequent. Still, I can make you a bed beside the fire, and make sure the sewers are locked up tightly so you won't bothered."

[shootyourshot]

The large hand is still strange, but he knows it's safe contact now. It's been so rare to meet someone who still has any semblance of self and sanity, yet Sylvain does, even if it's clear he's no ordinary man by any means.

He looks up, curious. A phantom? No, he doesn't think so. No bell for him, he just... surely, he must have used one of the graves in the Dream, didn't he? That must have been it. And yet, he can't remember clearly. Why is that so hard?

"I've been in worse," Ashe answers softly. "And you've already been very hospitable. So, thank you for having me."

What is it like, to sleep now properly? When's the last time he had?

[sonofagautier]

Sylvain snorts, something like amusement turning up the corners of his mouth. He'd really hate to see where else this lost fellow has had to stay. Not that he has much room to speak, given where he's actively chosen to make his home these days, and Irithyll is still one of the nicer places left in the world.

"Don't thank me yet. At least let me make sure the ghosts and centipedes don't come visit you in the night." Sylvain unhooks a set of heavy keys from his belt, and approaches the door descending into the lower level. He makes sure it's locked well, and then drags a heavy table over for good measure. He turns it over to blockade it, pauses for a moment, and then grabs a few chairs to shore it up for good measure.

"That ought to do. They're not particularly smart or strong, so just ignore the skittering. They'll get bored eventually."

Sylvain leans his chin into his hand, trying to think of what else he's meant to do as a host. It's been an age... warm hearth, locked doors, there's a few old straw mats to sleep on too.

"Hm, do you eat?"