stoneoftherose | Inbox: Pumpkin Hollow

Inbox: Pumpkin Hollow

[Pyotr is always slow to answer his sending stone, when he bothers to carry it with him at all. He's only rarely interested in talking to others, even when it relates to his safety or livelihood. Sometimes especially then -- if you really need to pin him down about something, it may be better to do it in person. But if you persist in this pointless endeavor, eventually unsteady hands will raise the stone to cracked lips and a drunk or hangover voice -- there doesn't seem to be any pattern as to which it is at any given hour of the day -- will answer.]

Yes? What is it?

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He feels even more wrong when the door opens and he looks at her with barely any emotion at all. A far cry from the first time she met him. Still, if he's going to ask her so freely, she might as well get to the point.

"You made a deal with Efrain, didn't you?"

Valdis eyes the figurines, wondering if these will come to life too.

"Or if not Efrain, with one of the other Princes."

"Efrain, yes." Pyotr's voice evinces no guilt or shame at the admission; perhaps, somewhere deep down in his heart, he feels a twinge of discomfort, but... "He approached me at Merrymeet and offered me a boon. The ability to remove my own emotions and turn them into something beautiful. I didn't know he would bring them to life and sic them on people."

Her glare could freeze the blood of any mortal creature, unless of course that's one of the emotions he has seen fit to remove. In essence, Pyotr feels like some kind of void, something that has only a partial soul, something half-alive, because of course he has just admitted to ripping pieces of his own out.

"What did you give him in return then, if not those creatures?"

He sighs, taking the liberty of sitting himself down since Valdis seems perfectly content to have this conversation in the middle of the room. "In retrospect, I suppose it seems obvious he was setting me up to be some sort of supplier, but I don't see how I could have reached that conclusion based on what seemed a straightforward gift."

He raises an eyebrow, displaying a hint of arrogance that would normally be drowned and buried under his habitual melancholy. "I used to be quite famous, you know. Receiving a small token in recognition of my skills wasn't a novelty."

"Then you are stupid as well as a traitor. Demons don't give gifts, they make trades."

His calm is aggravating, so is the arrogance.

"So in your opinion, we should be grateful to be hunted by your creations while forced to relive our darkest moments?"

"Yes, how foolish of me not to know all the particulars of this world's supernatural entities within three months of my arrival. Truly, there are no marks on this community darker than I." She's starting to annoy him, with her incessant prodding.

"I told you already, my sculptures were animated without my knowledge, much less my permission. I considered their creation a private matter, and only learned what they were used for after we had all already been in the opera house for some time. And in case you've forgotten," he reminds her tartly, "I was also forced to bare my soul to the crowd. Do you think I enjoyed that? The most painful memories of my life are now a matter of public review."

"I must have been in the back waiting for my own turn, because I do not."

Oh, he's lucky she's not so easily moved to murder in this moment, not that he would care if she killed him. She remembers how he felt before he had this power.

"You could at least pretend to be regretful, but let me guess, your ripped those emotions out because you can't bear to feel them."

"You already know me so well," he agrees. "My regrets are over there, on the plinth. Do you like what I'm doing with them?"

Valdis just stares, but it doesn't take someone particularly observant to see that her eyes have changed color, nor to see that every trace of previous emotion has left her.

"It's so much easier to not feel, isn't it?"

He looks up at her curiously, noting the change but unafraid of what it might portend. "It is," he agrees. "I might even call the experience addictive." It does come with certain drawbacks, to be sure...but the complete absence of pain brings its own kind of gratification.

"Yes, it is addictive, it makes you feel powerful doesn't it? Like you could do anything, make anything, without consequence."

"Don't project yourself onto me," he tells her sharply, with narrowed eyes. "I am only one mortal man, passing the time until death finally claims me. There is nothing left for me to do that is worth doing, except --" He stops himself. Except my favor to Fever, he'd been about to say, but he has no interest in discussing something so personal, so precious, with Valdis.

Valdis laughs.

"Here's the problem, Pyotr. By removing your emotions, you remove what makes you human. Every time you take a piece of yourself and tear it from your soul, you become less of a man and more of a monster. Eventually the monster will say differently."

And still he appears unbothered, even his moment of annoyance fading into boredom and passivity. "Perhaps if it were permanent, or if I expected to live as long you, that might be a concern," he says quietly. "But it is not, and I will not. Visit me again tomorrow and you will find me as tired and wretched as ever. I have no energy for monstrosity anymore."

Such a waste of her breath. He doesn't care about a thing in the world except for his art. Though maybe he didn't tear out his anger, certainly worth poking to see.

"Art comes from the soul, you know. The pieces you make right now lack feeling. They are as empty as you currently are, and just as worthless."

He sucks in an in-drawn breath, as if she'd just struck him -- she might as well have. She couldn't know the struggles he's been experiencing, when he tries to produce anything other than the sculptures; how he must endure the pain of a full range of emotion to make anything worthwhile at all.

But he's hardly about to admit that to her. "Do not speak of things you don't understand!" he snaps, rising to his feet. "I do not tell you how to enforce the laws, do I? Then leave me to pursue my own calling as I do yours!"

"Don't understand?"

her tone switches to something that says without words that he could be so blind.

"Do you think, in all my years, I've never put a pen to paper to draw a portrait? That I have never sat and painted a landscape? That I have never dug my fingers into clay and molded a sculpture?"

She shakes her head.

"I did not cut out the world when I abstained from emotional connection with humans, instead I poured those feelings into art. It was my only release, the only safe way I could express my emotions."

She's not certain he could become any more pathetic in her eyes.

"I may have been created for war, but art, real art, is how I enjoy times of peace."

At another time, in another place, they might have found common ground. They might even have been friends. But here and now, Valdis is an enforcer, and she's gone out of her way to drive needles into every one of his most tender vulnerabilities. Thus he sneers, and with a savagely dismissive wave of his hand he says, "I'm not speaking of idle hobbies, this is the outpouring of my soul! I have nothing else left to give my existence meaning. If you lack the wit to appreciate it then --" Then what, Pyotr? Are you going to throw yourself at her, fists raised? That's hardly your style...nor is it likely to do any good.

"Then leave," he tells her coldly. "I have no thing more to say to you. Get out of my flat."

Valdis tips her head. Clearly he's not in the mood for making some kind of peace.

"Do Fever and Erik mean nothing then? They add nothing to your existence in any way?"

He sneers at that which he perceives as nothing more than a shallow attempt to manipulate him into exposing further vulnerabilities. "Fever and Erik know perfectly well what they mean to me," he snaps, "But I don't care to discuss such things with you." And then he seals his mouth tightly shut, glaring at her as he waits for her next move.

He's already stated his wishes, but he has no power to enforce them. So, he waits.

"Good."

She replies with far less vitriol than him.

"They mean a lot to me too and I would be upset if they got hurt."

With that, she turns on her heel and leaves. The man is hopeless and obviously won't listen to a word she says. Hopefully Erik and Fever will be better at getting through to him, otherwise she won't waste her breath.

'Hope' would require the desire to be anything other than what he is, and Pyotr barely wants to be anything. Erik and Fever have their work cut out for them.

He does breathe a sigh of relief when she finally leaves, though, slumping back down onto his couch with an arm thrown over his eyes. She really is...quite terrifying. A greater mistress than even Nina ever attained.

A few days letter a large envelope will arrive at Pyotr's door. Upon opening it he will find a hauntingly beautiful sketch of himself, sitting over his desk, sculpting the very bird he had been working on the day Valdis visited.

From a distance it could have been a black and white photograph, but up close the tiny strokes and blending are evident.

On the back it simply reads:

"Just" a hobby - V

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Inbox: Pumpkin Hollow

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