— hope nobody needs this anymore.

[ none of the homes are particularly desirable, but laurent still goes through nearly all of them to find one that’s less undesirable than the others — a sturdy little house at the end of a row, its chipped blue paint like little bits of broken sky dotting the outside.

he lets himself in, grateful for the reprieve from the incessant cold. it’s full of things completely foreign to the palace in arles, but it does have both solid and comfortable furniture — a couch with soft pillows, a little table in the kitchen covered in dust, a pair of wooden chairs with faded cushions on the seats. a short set of stairs lead to a pair of bedrooms and a large tub, and laurent throws open the closets to find them full of clothes. dry clothes that aren’t miserably caked with snow.

well. with no one to attend him, he begins the extensive process of unlacing himself of his garments, stripping off his cloak, boots, jacket, shirt, undershirt, and trousers. the first thing he swaths himself in is a large red sweater that hangs to his thighs, and he’s examining a pair of thick socks when he hears the sound of footsteps.

he snatches his sword and strides calmly from the room, holding it almost casually before him as his eyes sharpen. ]

Get out of my house.

— the siren.

[ his sword is lost to the lake, his grip slack, his fingers numb with cold. the woman’s wild eyes and tiny, bone-sharp teeth somehow are not the most frightening things about the situation, her body giving way to his strength and the hot burst of anger that she would attempt to murder him so boldly. he should be used to such things, and yet his ire has never failed him yet.

it’s the pull of the water that truly humbles him — dark, icy, dragging him down like a dozen prying hands. the cold shocks him, water flooding his lungs, his lips tinged a fragile blue. when someone forcibly grabs him, he doesn’t fight, dragged from the depths like a clump of wildflowers pulled from the dirt.

his mind lags in its attempt to race. he knows the sort of men that roam the wilderness. with gritted teeth, his aching fingers loosen the blade at his hip, his long hair clinging wetly to his cheek. ]

Come here, I have to thank you.

[ his words shudder with the cold, but he pushes himself to his knees and plunges his blade into the closest bit of flesh he spots through red-rimmed eyes. ]

— WILDCARD.

[ ooc: will default to brackets. laurent is a character that deals with csa and all the trauma associated with it, so pls proceed with caution if these are triggering subjects for you. ]