Yardie (prime)/What All Great Men Do

This post is a mirror of Oxaniae's vignette. All the names mentioned are part of the story, and I have their permission. In fact, the Aga post was written by Aga herself. I'm not looking for a squabble, but if there are concerns, please hit me up.

For those curious, you can check out Oxaniae's post: * Spy Games

I hope to end the bulk of this story and essentially...everything...by the end of November.

Yardie's Player.

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The sound of crashing waves swallowed the outside world, leaving Yardie to his own thoughts. They were meant for him, entombed with a past life as the resurrected form of the Panicky Phantom known to all surfaced in his place, its location hidden only to him. Many sought the location of the treasures within, a trove of memories and secrets with heavy implications. Carelessness and trust compromised him once, but he vowed never to allow it to happen again.

Mystiq reversed that.

Wrendiel’s return a year ago provided clues to those damning valuables. Demons resurfaced. Specters of the past fluttered ostentatiously like moths to a blue-black flame. But Yardie tried with all his might, steeling his resolve with every conspiracy, holding on to hope despite each disappearance: Agathliea, Iskandr, Draelor, Emperia, and the names went on and on. Soon the flames would lick too high, drawing the attention of more than moths.

And then came Mystiq.

Wrendiel pulled the Ta’Mori into the fold, stoking the suspicions she already suspected. But deep feelings produce a vow of concealment and distance, never probing with her power, never dancing in the confines of a damaged mind, allowing for the rogue to open that door.

He never did, even when she took the life of one of his adversaries. In a gesture of goodwill, she sought to share her acts of loyalty, peeling back the veil of her thoughts and illustrating the machinations of her wrath. In a gesture of goodwill, Yardie acquiesced.

That mistake proved nigh fatal. And had it not been for Darphin, Mystiq’s husband, he would have been none the wiser. The Patriarch of the Ta’Mori described her ability as a window, one through which she revealed one side but had access to the other. It was never intended as a violation; she never cracked it open. But that clarity provided access to what was on the other side, and roaming eyes saw everything.

Everything.

In an instant, the tomb had been pried open, its contents spelunked without his permission.

Because of her loyalties, he did nothing. But his trust had once again been tarnished. Her pleas were brushed aside, drowned out in the crashing waters. He sat, feeling utterly alone. Vulnerable. Helpless.

After several minutes, he rose to his feet, brushed the sand off his tailored sable-linen trousers, and stifled a sigh as he caught a glint of light. He paused, already aware, the hair on his arms fanning toward the sky. After a pregnant pause, he retreated to the confines of his own, but slipped away once the line of sight had been broken. Whoever claimed a stake in the shadows now had a demonstration of a master. Yardie stalked, watched, and waited. It would not be long before he saw the Faendryl woman scurry inside, the lost target leading her to sloppy haste. By the time she resigned herself to losing her target, the Panicky Phantom had seen everything.

When the coast was clear, Yardie groaned as he cleaned up the kitchen, returning scattered belongings to their place. He took a set of cups and returned them to the smoky grey haon cabinets set with helical vaalorn hardware. His eyes caught sight of something, and he opened the cabinet once more. Inside, at the bottom of the cabinet, underneath plates and spices, rested a white note, written in Elven. Yardie used the knowledge he acquired in his reading practice to make sense of the note.

It read:

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Yardie,

I wonder if you will ever clean this cupboard out and read these words: You are my best friend. You are my muse. You are my heart.

If you tell anyone I said this, I will cut your locks off your head with my axe. --Aga

---

The Panicky Phantom closed his eyes, letting the honeyed voice of the Vaalorian echo in his mind, leaving his eyes glistening like dew, tears desperately holding on to blue-black eyelashes. He breathed, smiled, and nodded knowingly.

Muse.

“No, my dear Agathilea, you are my muse,” he said into the night. And with that, he removed his silvery lor quill, moved to the rustic widowwood desk, and sat on the witchwood armchair. With a crack of his knuckles, he prepared several pieces of paper and prepared his counterattack.

Motivated by the muse that was his best friend, he placed his quill on the parchment and let his words bleed.