It isn't just that it's darker than it should, by rights be. Filled with shadows, yes, but also appearing to be drawn in grayscale, as though color cannot survive here.
It isn't the desperation that permeates the city so strongly it feels as though it has a scent and a taste to even mortal senses, if one could just focus hard enough on it.
It isn't even the horrifying crime rate.
It's that everything feels ominous and menacing - something actively hostile baked into every element of it. It is dangerous to be here, and there's no attempt to hide that behind any pretty facade. It's been that way for years.
It's been that way since two wealthy citizens died, and their son didn't.
Any outsider - anyone who doesn't belong in, or to, Gotham stands out like a scream shattering silence. At least to that now adult child, pulled out of a gutter running with his parents blood and raised in hell.
Bruce doesn't approach - or make himself known - immediately. He's just in the shadows, observing and torn between being impressed at the sheer stupid bravery and frustrated and near insulted by the unbelievable audacity.
When he finally moves there's no warning. There's no sound at all. Shadows simply pull back as he steps forward. Black on black on black, save red, nearly animal, eye-shine that... the light isn't right to account for. "You don't belong here."
Edited (Oh just me being me (I removed extra words.)) 2024-11-19 14:48 (UTC)
He's heard all of the warnings, all of the rumours, and it's not that he didn't heed them (though he didn't accept them without question, either, because he never does). It's just different, actually experiencing it for yourself.
It's not the bleakness, because the entire world is like that now. If anything, Gotham is holding up better than a lot of cities, structurally speaking; so many are just worn down, despite fierce defenders or a god's favour. But he's never crossed a boundary into such palpable, relentless misery.
It's never met people he seem defensive of it, either, even viciously proud. We're survivors, in Gotham; we're strong enough to thrive here and make it our own; we don't need anyone else, especially someone like you.
He's considering how exactly to deal with that when his situation changes very suddenly, and very drastically.
Well. He owes a few people some gold pieces, but as to the immediate problem, "I could argue that, I think."
Then he offers his hand. It's not as ridiculously stupid as it could be; his gauntlet is dented and battered, but still protective enough.
"You are clearly intelligent enough to know who I am and to not give me your name, and yet you're still here. Arguing with me."
He just looks confused by the hand. Who the hell trots up to the Prince of Hell, in his element and does that. He tilts his head at the offered hand, very slightly, like a confused dog. but sure. Okay. He shakes it. Just to see what, if anything, the crazy mortal does.
He doesn't even squeeze overly hard. In fact it's very, very polite.
What the crazy mortal does is - shake his hand like a normal person, before pulling back without any trace of contempt or urgency.
There are tricks he could pull, and they might even do some damage; someone who chooses to actively fight in this war needs to be powerful, after all. But it sure wouldn't kill an archdevil, and more importantly that isn't why he's here.
"There aren't many healers left in Gotham, are there?"
"You could phrase it like that, yes." There's a slight arch to his eyebrows that implies that he's played this game before.
"For the record, I'm willing to sign a contract if that's the only way to get anything done, but let's be clear on the terms. My soul wouldn't even be worth the trouble."
Somehow, this might be the strangest thing he's said yet; a paladin's soul, a warrior of another god? Those are coveted for a reason. (Zerxus has a theory that most of that reason is just Sheer Fucking Pettiness but in fairness, he isn't a scholar of the Hells or anything.)
It's his turn for an eyebrow arch, though his is slow and sardonic. His head's still caught in that slight, fascinated, tilt. Like he just is not sure what he is looking at.
"I can hardly speak for my father, but you don't need to convince me that your soul isn't worth the trouble. Thirty seconds in your presence has done quite a good job of it." Fascinating, audacious, ballsy, attractive? Yeah, he's interested in all sorts of ways. Deeply. Sharply. Too intensely. That doesn't mean he's going to admit to it. "You do need to convince me that you are worth dealing with and that a single person in Gotham is willing to accept your help."
"Good, because I'm speaking to you." He is, functionally, dismissing the Lord of the Hells out of hand. There's not an ounce of reverence there, but there's no righteous hatred, either.
"I was actually hoping you'd have some constructive advice on that second one. As for the first, that really depends on what you find worth it."
"You don't know who you're speaking to." Or rather who is or isn't listening, and neither does Bruce. To a degree that he is being more cautious than he would be, even on his own.
He is not dismissive of the Lord of Hell, thank you. He has far, far too much experience for that brand of reckless stupidity.
"I can tell you how to get them to accept help, at least more willingly. Stop being a patronizing dick and broadcasting, however unintentionally, that you are here to help. Just do it and keep doing it." That sounds simple. What he wants in return... he actually doesn't care.
But he has to. He has to make a deal of this. Has to be some sort of string. "You stay a year. A full year. You do not leave within that year unless it is with me." Meaning go to hell, probably, but still. "At the end of that year and if you survive, you get an opportunity to leave, or a change of terms."
Zerxus is smart enough, at least, not to say 'if he wants to join the conversation he can be an adult about it' out loud.
His frown isn't offended, or defensive; it's thoughtful, mostly, and after a moment he nods. That's something he can work on; he's had to adjust his approach plenty, across a deeply fractured world.
The inevitable exchange, that's what actually dims his expression. It's not refusal, or resignation, just...
"I left my griffon at the edge of the city. I'll need to send him home with a message."
Well. As measures of intelligence go it isn't much, but it is something. He keeps his head cocked and watches Zerxus work through both the advice and the demand.
All he says, ultimately, is: "I'll walk with you." Not at all because being very visibly seen with him will be... at least as likely to be helpful as not. He's not precisely nice, but he is deeply connected to and protective of this specific city. If nothing else, he'll add legitimacy to Zerxus attempts -- and maybe just a little fear based compliance.
"All right." No hesitation in acceptance there, or even in turning his back - though the latter might be sheer pragmatism. There's a shield strapped to it that's finer than any piece of his armour, with a shape that echoes furled wings and gleaming runes etched into the polished metal. Whoever made or enhanced this did so with both passion and skill.
As he rummages in one of the satchels trapped to his belt, "Is there anything you want me to ask for?"
It may be more self-sufficient than most, but Gotham surely can't achieve everything on its own, and Zerxus kind of doubts it does much trade.
He is impressed and intrigued by the shield, but also utterly unintimidated. Also lacking good sense in several ways because he walks up and actually flicks it just to see if it does anything or does anything to him.
"Beyond you? I think that should suffice, though I suppose you could always ask for something to be sent and held as collateral. Who are you sending the message home to?"
The sort of fiend that Zerxus usually fights would be staggered by the flare of protective radiance. For Bruce, it probably tickles a little.
Zerxus turns his head to arch an eyebrow, trying and failing to smother the fondly amused smile. That's easier when he gets his answer and rolls his eyes.
"Good to know I count as valuable goods." Being sassy is important, okay, but also he is blatantly stalling. "...I'm sending three of them. One to a leader, one to a captain."
Eaedalus, who went damn near seamlessly from mayor of Cathmoira to head of their makeshift community; Amara, a paladin of the Everlight they met years later. She's one of the major reasons he's comfortable leaving them for this long.
Well, it feels like something. He doesn't poke it again but his eyes narrow and he very much wants to.
He nods slightly as he listens, barely acknowledging. Then quirks an eyebrow up. "Not exactly father of the year material, are you?" And particularly not this year.
Congratulations, the Prince of Hell is judging you.
That hits like a physical blow, judging by the flinch, but his voice remains quiet and steady even as he stares forward with grim ferocity.
"He's surrounded by people who love him. People who will never stop fighting for him, or the future he deserves, or the world he was born into. Even if we fail, he'll always know what it should have been."
Then he looks behind him again, his gaze bright and piercing. "How many children in Gotham can say the same?"
That does not exactly make him happy, but it shows mostly by his expression turning... colder, and less human but somehow... prettier? for it. Something in the unnaturalness of the degree of remote and sharpness.
"I've no idea. I imagine how many grow up knowing anything at all now depends on you."
That really should chill him, instead of intriguing - no, alluring him.
Oh, that's different, that's new, and he is not going to think about it. He's not going to look away, either, but that's just because they're having a conversation. Obviously.
Zerxus has his suspicions, and he knows they could be wishful thinking - but that doesn't really change anything, not on his part. He'll do whatever he needs to, to make life a little better for the people here.
"I guess it will." He really does need to tear his gaze away if he doesn't want to trip over something and fall on his ass, so he finally looks forward again. It's not long after that they're approaching the border, and a magnificent creature pacing a foot or so away from it.
"There," he says, as if the celestial spirit could possibly be missed, and strides over to meet his mount. The griffon bounds forward immediately, nuzzling Zerxus even as it glares at Bruce, wings flaring outwards.
Bruce's response to the griffon is... interesting.
There's something some defensive response back - red washes over his eyes with a dull glow that entirely obscures the more human appearing dark brown and there's something in the way shadows perceptibly deepen around him, and suggestion of movement within them from behind him.
But the expression on his face isn't defensive, threatening, or anything of the sort. Even with hellishly red eyes, and the griffon flaring wings and glaring, Bruce just looks... fascinated.
Most, understandably, wouldn't see beyond the hellfire in Bruce's eyes. Zerxus reads the actual expression, though, and his lips quirk into a smile.
"Hush," he murmurs, stroking the griffon's neck. He isn't going to hurt either of us is reserved for their telepathic connection, because he doesn't want the Prince of Hell to get all pissy about it.
Then he steps back, to fish out the rest of his paper. "This is Tempus. I summoned him...gods, I was nineteen." Almost a decade before the world was broken.
It's also a lot of power for a teenager to have - Find Greater Steed is up there, when it comes to paladin spells - and his expression is rueful when he looks up again. "And no, I don't know how I managed that either."
And back to perplexed he goes - not only at that story, nor the 'audacity' of being spoken to 'that way' - but certainly of being spoken to that way.
That way being casually and seemingly comfortably.
He quite sincerely has not the first idea what to do with that. Particularly not with palpable shadows around him and his eyes doing that specific thing that they continue to do, now mostly just because he started.
"Help from somewhere," Or one, "would be the obvious answer." IMmediate answer, anyway. After this long? Less likely.
"For most paladins, yes." He tilts his head, and Tempus turns enough to let him use the saddle as a makeshift table. Apparently, they've done this a lot.
Strapped to it are much larger satchels, and a sheathed sword that Bruce is probably getting horrible vibes from.
Zerxus, either oblivious or pretending to be, starts his first letter - to Anora, because that will be the quickest. Just informing her how long he'll be gone, how to divide certain duties between other warriors, and a few smaller requests.
He is absolutely, viscerally, deeply, repulsed by that sword. Which is of course weird enough in and of itself - yes, yes, he knows why he's having that reaction - that he creeps around a bit to squint faintly at it.
"You had that thing and you walked into Gotham without it?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Oh, you know.
It isn't just that it's darker than it should, by rights be. Filled with shadows, yes, but also appearing to be drawn in grayscale, as though color cannot survive here.
It isn't the desperation that permeates the city so strongly it feels as though it has a scent and a taste to even mortal senses, if one could just focus hard enough on it.
It isn't even the horrifying crime rate.
It's that everything feels ominous and menacing - something actively hostile baked into every element of it. It is dangerous to be here, and there's no attempt to hide that behind any pretty facade. It's been that way for years.
It's been that way since two wealthy citizens died, and their son didn't.
Any outsider - anyone who doesn't belong in, or to, Gotham stands out like a scream shattering silence. At least to that now adult child, pulled out of a gutter running with his parents blood and raised in hell.
Bruce doesn't approach - or make himself known - immediately. He's just in the shadows, observing and torn between being impressed at the sheer stupid bravery and frustrated and near insulted by the unbelievable audacity.
When he finally moves there's no warning. There's no sound at all. Shadows simply pull back as he steps forward. Black on black on black, save red, nearly animal, eye-shine that... the light isn't right to account for. "You don't belong here."
Re: Oh, you know.
It's not the bleakness, because the entire world is like that now. If anything, Gotham is holding up better than a lot of cities, structurally speaking; so many are just worn down, despite fierce defenders or a god's favour. But he's never crossed a boundary into such palpable, relentless misery.
It's never met people he seem defensive of it, either, even viciously proud. We're survivors, in Gotham; we're strong enough to thrive here and make it our own; we don't need anyone else, especially someone like you.
He's considering how exactly to deal with that when his situation changes very suddenly, and very drastically.
Well. He owes a few people some gold pieces, but as to the immediate problem, "I could argue that, I think."
Then he offers his hand. It's not as ridiculously stupid as it could be; his gauntlet is dented and battered, but still protective enough.
"You must be Bruce."
Re: Oh, you know.
He just looks confused by the hand. Who the hell trots up to the Prince of Hell, in his element and does that. He tilts his head at the offered hand, very slightly, like a confused dog. but sure. Okay. He shakes it. Just to see what, if anything, the crazy mortal does.
He doesn't even squeeze overly hard. In fact it's very, very polite.
Re: Oh, you know.
What the crazy mortal does is - shake his hand like a normal person, before pulling back without any trace of contempt or urgency.
There are tricks he could pull, and they might even do some damage; someone who chooses to actively fight in this war needs to be powerful, after all. But it sure wouldn't kill an archdevil, and more importantly that isn't why he's here.
"There aren't many healers left in Gotham, are there?"
Re: Oh, you know.
Well, it might be the happiest place on this earth, for some definition of happy.
"Are you trying to offer me your services?"
Re: Oh, you know.
"For the record, I'm willing to sign a contract if that's the only way to get anything done, but let's be clear on the terms. My soul wouldn't even be worth the trouble."
Somehow, this might be the strangest thing he's said yet; a paladin's soul, a warrior of another god? Those are coveted for a reason. (Zerxus has a theory that most of that reason is just Sheer Fucking Pettiness but in fairness, he isn't a scholar of the Hells or anything.)
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"I can hardly speak for my father, but you don't need to convince me that your soul isn't worth the trouble. Thirty seconds in your presence has done quite a good job of it." Fascinating, audacious, ballsy, attractive? Yeah, he's interested in all sorts of ways. Deeply. Sharply. Too intensely. That doesn't mean he's going to admit to it. "You do need to convince me that you are worth dealing with and that a single person in Gotham is willing to accept your help."
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"I was actually hoping you'd have some constructive advice on that second one. As for the first, that really depends on what you find worth it."
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He is not dismissive of the Lord of Hell, thank you. He has far, far too much experience for that brand of reckless stupidity.
"I can tell you how to get them to accept help, at least more willingly. Stop being a patronizing dick and broadcasting, however unintentionally, that you are here to help. Just do it and keep doing it." That sounds simple. What he wants in return... he actually doesn't care.
But he has to. He has to make a deal of this. Has to be some sort of string. "You stay a year. A full year. You do not leave within that year unless it is with me." Meaning go to hell, probably, but still. "At the end of that year and if you survive, you get an opportunity to leave, or a change of terms."
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His frown isn't offended, or defensive; it's thoughtful, mostly, and after a moment he nods. That's something he can work on; he's had to adjust his approach plenty, across a deeply fractured world.
The inevitable exchange, that's what actually dims his expression. It's not refusal, or resignation, just...
"I left my griffon at the edge of the city. I'll need to send him home with a message."
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All he says, ultimately, is: "I'll walk with you." Not at all because being very visibly seen with him will be... at least as likely to be helpful as not. He's not precisely nice, but he is deeply connected to and protective of this specific city. If nothing else, he'll add legitimacy to Zerxus attempts -- and maybe just a little fear based compliance.
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As he rummages in one of the satchels trapped to his belt, "Is there anything you want me to ask for?"
It may be more self-sufficient than most, but Gotham surely can't achieve everything on its own, and Zerxus kind of doubts it does much trade.
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"Beyond you? I think that should suffice, though I suppose you could always ask for something to be sent and held as collateral. Who are you sending the message home to?"
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Zerxus turns his head to arch an eyebrow, trying and failing to smother the fondly amused smile. That's easier when he gets his answer and rolls his eyes.
"Good to know I count as valuable goods." Being sassy is important, okay, but also he is blatantly stalling. "...I'm sending three of them. One to a leader, one to a captain."
Eaedalus, who went damn near seamlessly from mayor of Cathmoira to head of their makeshift community; Amara, a paladin of the Everlight they met years later. She's one of the major reasons he's comfortable leaving them for this long.
Then, very quietly, "One to my son."
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He nods slightly as he listens, barely acknowledging. Then quirks an eyebrow up. "Not exactly father of the year material, are you?" And particularly not this year.
Congratulations, the Prince of Hell is judging you.
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"He's surrounded by people who love him. People who will never stop fighting for him, or the future he deserves, or the world he was born into. Even if we fail, he'll always know what it should have been."
Then he looks behind him again, his gaze bright and piercing. "How many children in Gotham can say the same?"
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"I've no idea. I imagine how many grow up knowing anything at all now depends on you."
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Oh, that's different, that's new, and he is not going to think about it. He's not going to look away, either, but that's just because they're having a conversation. Obviously.
"Was that a threat or an observation?"
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It isn't a threat. But even so, even if he were willing to definitively remove the psychological pressure and discomfort of that uncertainty....
He can't.
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"I guess it will." He really does need to tear his gaze away if he doesn't want to trip over something and fall on his ass, so he finally looks forward again. It's not long after that they're approaching the border, and a magnificent creature pacing a foot or so away from it.
"There," he says, as if the celestial spirit could possibly be missed, and strides over to meet his mount. The griffon bounds forward immediately, nuzzling Zerxus even as it glares at Bruce, wings flaring outwards.
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There's something some defensive response back - red washes over his eyes with a dull glow that entirely obscures the more human appearing dark brown and there's something in the way shadows perceptibly deepen around him, and suggestion of movement within them from behind him.
But the expression on his face isn't defensive, threatening, or anything of the sort. Even with hellishly red eyes, and the griffon flaring wings and glaring, Bruce just looks... fascinated.
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"Hush," he murmurs, stroking the griffon's neck. He isn't going to hurt either of us is reserved for their telepathic connection, because he doesn't want the Prince of Hell to get all pissy about it.
Then he steps back, to fish out the rest of his paper. "This is Tempus. I summoned him...gods, I was nineteen." Almost a decade before the world was broken.
It's also a lot of power for a teenager to have - Find Greater Steed is up there, when it comes to paladin spells - and his expression is rueful when he looks up again. "And no, I don't know how I managed that either."
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That way being casually and seemingly comfortably.
He quite sincerely has not the first idea what to do with that. Particularly not with palpable shadows around him and his eyes doing that specific thing that they continue to do, now mostly just because he started.
"Help from somewhere," Or one, "would be the obvious answer." IMmediate answer, anyway. After this long? Less likely.
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Strapped to it are much larger satchels, and a sheathed sword that Bruce is probably getting horrible vibes from.
Zerxus, either oblivious or pretending to be, starts his first letter - to Anora, because that will be the quickest. Just informing her how long he'll be gone, how to divide certain duties between other warriors, and a few smaller requests.
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"You had that thing and you walked into Gotham without it?"
The fuck is wrong with this idiot.
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