Chapter Text
Bazzard Black is neither the sole nor the most prestigious Noble to have their status and the wealth that came with it stripped from him in the methodical manner a newly appointed Faction does. But he is the sole Noble to chose the final property to his name, an alleged mercy from Yhwach, as his coffin. It’s an act that brings him more ridicule than pity now that 5 years have past since the revolution that crowned Yhwach emperor of the Lichtreich.
The tragedy that left Bazzard Black content to live in the unkempt manor is a tale that’s been lost to current progress and scandal, with Bazzard Black himself being the protagonist for many tabloid articles when he made a rare public appearance through a crack in the curtains or his doorway. Many published their theories on what little riches the young former Noble pathetically kept confined with them, what delusions ran wild in that manor that hasn’t received a visitor in years.
Truth be told there are no expensive trinkets lying in the clutter, but there are many delusions that keep Bazzard Black occupied between the haze that is his reality. Visions of his mother and servants that were family in all but blood, the mangled corpses they were becoming living beings for a time before being cut down again by irrefutable memory.
Bazzard Black is not the only Noble to lose every luxury that formed his former life, but he is the only Noble left to scrutinize for their choices. He is the only Noble of his class and bloodline to survive the purge.
Before the revolution, Nobility had a firm grasp on the social structure that kept them secure. There were cruel ones of course, but the late Lady Black was defined by gentle indifference more than anything. A Lady that offered meals and housing during the holidays through the family’s separate properties, but for the remainder of the year kept a low profile. It earned her some affection from the lower classes then. But when Yhwach arrived, his captivating speeches enthralled the masses and inflamed the desire for equal change and violence. Civil war was inevitable.
The hospitality from Lady Black earned her some leniency while the other Noble houses had their property pillaged and ruined as the Noble’s forces were pushed back. But when Lady Black publicly questioned the legitimacy of Yhwach’s sympathy for the lower class, she and her relatives were no longer exempt from the war.
Bazzard Black doesn’t think about the ambush. He shouldn’t. Never by choice. The times where the alcohol muddles his thoughts and the bullet and the combined jeers my my, the young master was having tea with the mistress of the house while everything is burning outside-
There’s a loud thump as something limp and heavy collides with the hardwood floor. The pain in Bazzard’s shoulder is immediate. He blindly pats around for an ideally still full bottle of any alcohol. Finding none in his immediate surroundings, he eases himself up, leaning his back against the couch to take in the state of the house.
“What a mess…”
Not that he’d made any effort to clean for quite some time now. That reporter…Askin, right? He doubles as a housekeeper when he comes by for some few words on the record. He brings Whiskey and stew as payment for the trouble, so Bazzard rarely refuses a visit. But it’s been some time since his last visit, now that he gets a good look at the place with a pain cleared head.
“Hah…if he doesn’t come by today, I won’t have anything to eat.”
He says it like a plain, casual fact. Not a hint of concern for his wellbeing, and it’s likely there is none at all.
He hums quietly as he falls back first on the floor, kicking his feet up on the wood table.
For a man running on the alcohol yesterday that put him in this dull hangover, he felt no hunger, let alone any craving for something to energize him. Even grinding his teeth feels like a tedious task right now.
Without even feeling particularly tired, Bazzard closes his eyes to prepare for another nap, hopefully uninterrupted by intrusive memories. The darkness underneath his eyelids has an immediate effect that makes his body feel heavy and desperate for the peace of unconsciousness.
It’s Bazzard’s normal schedule, waking by visions, drinking plenty and eating little, and drifting back to sleep to avoid more. Askin Nakk Le Vaar has it memorized, and he’s quite certain the former noble doesn’t notice when he sneaks in the house while he’s napping to leave cooked meals lying around. He probably doesn’t even question how food finds itself in the home of a severe reclusive. The fact he’s still alive is proof enough the meals aren’t going to waste, at least.
Truth be told, being held up by a story at Capital Post about an exposed celebrity affair had him worried Bazzard Black would die of starvation before he’d see him again. Arriving this painfully early with some warmed leftovers from his breakfast and some packed lunch and dinner is done in hopes of making it in time to not find a corpse in the parlor. That’d make for a pretty anticlimactic ending to the biography.
Askin parks in the driveway. Like usual, he takes a moment to rest his chin on the steering wheel and admire the derelict Black manor.
“This was some house back in the day.”
Askin has yet to work up the courage to ask Bazzard Black if he’d leave the manor in his name. It’d make for great marketing, but the rare times Bazzard Black broke their apathetic state is when his late family is mentioned, so it’s doubtful he’d go for it. He wouldn’t put it past him to write in his will he’d like the manor to be his grave.
Askin opens the door, gets one leg out and reaches for the bag with the packed food.
“Askin Nakk Le Vaar?”
Askin goes still. He’s used to ambushing people with their full name as a field reporter for a newspaper specializing in scandal, but the names he knows have reputation behind them. For a nobody like him being called out like this is off putting.
“Ah…yes?”
“You’re the investigative journalist covering the western half of the capitol for the Capitol Post, Askin Nakk Le Vaar?”
Investigative journalist. Now that’s the title of his actual job, though everyone, including the former noble he feeds like a stray cat calls him reporter. They don’t seem to understand the fundamental difference that one writes and the other speaks into a radio. The news for a radio is simply…too structured for Askin. The regularly scheduled good morning and good night to the public with the occasional break in monotony.
Whoever this is…did some investigating of their own on him.
“Yes…that’s me.”
“Ah, good. I’m glad I have the right person. Would you mind stepping out of the car?”
A little bit, yeah, Askin thinks. He steps out of the car, getting his first look at the person who cornered him.
A woman, blonde hair neatly pressed into a bun, and a well dressed woman at that. A tailored suit jacket with a high collar buttoned tight at the neck and matching pants, and black leather loafers on her feet. Her eyes…are a rather striking black, framed by long lashes. She’s standing beside the drivers side door of a black Daimler car. His instincts tell him this car may not be hers.
“Askin Nakk Le Vaar, you wrote an article 4 years ago concerning the death of Lady Schwon Black. A year after that, you wrote a follow up, describing the life of the surviving heir Bazzard Black, even including an interview. I understand both these articles were influential in your promotion from back up to sole field journalist of this area.”
“I’m flattered such a fancy looking lady took so much time looking into me.”
The woman blinks. Slowly. Clearly unimpressed by Askin’s flattery.
Askin quietly clears his throat. He subconsciously takes on the posture of a journalist needing to do some good PR.
“To be clear…I referred to the death of Lady Schwon Black as an ‘execution of radical beliefs, both figuratively and literally’, not simply a death of natural causes.”
“Some argued you made a martyr out of her.”
“What can I say? I just can’t help but add a poetic spin to my writing.”
“And in my opinion, your article of Bazzard Black was far less subtle in its attempt to humanize his circumstances.”
“You’re pretty interested in the Black’s. Just so you know, I did my due diligence to avoid any problems. That being said, that noble in there…,” Askin glances at the manor. “Can’t afford a lawyer, let alone one willing to sue for slander or anything else. So who’s paying you to track down the messenger?”
The woman tilts her head. “You think I’m a lawyer?”
“You look the part.”
“Goodness. And here I thought I underdressed today. But no, I’m nothing so grand. I have an employer, though he pays me a lawyer’s salary.”
“Ah.” Now Askin is sure that fancy car isn’t hers. And that employer of hers must be in the car, having her be a mediator. “And what exactly…does your employer want with me, then?”
The woman’s black eyes gleamed, seemingly pleased that they can now get to the point. “I’ve heard you have a great interest in Bazzard Black…due to a long term project you have in mind. A biography, specifically.”
“That’s right.”
The woman gives a pointed glance to the manor. “Great enough to keep him fed and drunk two years after your first interview?”
Askin shrugs. “It’d be pretty anticlimactic to have the protagonist die from malnutrition or withdrawal.”
“Then it’s purely professional?”
“Professional?”
The woman takes a step forward. “It’s a lot of work on your part, bringing him supplies weekly. You’ve even bathed him more than once.”
“Uh, how do you know that?”
The woman takes another step that Askin backs away from this time. “Your interest in Bazzard Black…it is strictly professional, yes? If not, it’s best you tell me how intimately you know Bazzard Black.”
“Listen, miss…”
“Edith.”
“Edith. Unless you have a legal document in your pockets or your employer is willing to personally meet with me to explain themselves, I don’t owe you any explanation over my relationship with a contact.”
“Ah.” Edith taps her feet. “Then you’ll be happy to explain yourself to my employer?”
“I, well…yes.”
“Wonderful.”
Her smile as she reached for the door handle made Askin realize he may have made a fatal mistake just now. It didn’t occur to him the mysterious employer could have come along for the ride.
The door opens, and first Askin sees black loafers. As a part of their torso comes out from behind the door, he sees a flash of blonde over the shoulder he’d recognize anywhere. There’s only one man in the capitol to be known for such luxurious hair, one even the Capitol Post hesitates to even mention in its papers next to a critical word.
“Jugram Haschwalth?…”
The blue eyes renowned for the long, pale lashes that softened their intensity lacked any of the serene beauty he’d heard so much of. No, in fact, there’s something like anger when they fix their sights on Askin.
“Askin Nakk Le Vaar. I wish I could say it’s a pleasure. But first, I’d like to know what is the purpose of your meeting with Bazzard Black.”