bitterguardian: (tea & books)
Amarante's first visit to Horvath's home was brief, but the place makes an impression. Deep underground, buried in metal and concrete and layers of wards even his old master would be impressed by, Horvath is an old dragon huddled in a subterranean lair. He may have mentioned 'the vault', and he's told her before of how he guards something the Morganians would gladly kill him to get. His home is a bomb shelter, and he keeps it very tightly under lock and key.

Inside this fortress, he's made a grand space, though. His library fills most of an abandoned train station, with a cathedral ceiling that's mostly lost in shadow and rows of bookshelves that stretch further than can be seen from standing in any one spot. There are throw rugs, plush antique chairs and couches, desks and tables piled with books and papers and knickknacks, and a few display stands and cabinets that hold bizarre and impressive items collected on his travels over the ages. Lamps scattered throughout the place cast just enough light to give a warm and cozy glow to the place, without making it too bright. It's a far cry from the sanctuary Mara took him to, but the place has been molded around him like well-worn clothing or a favorite chair. Every inch of the place is very him.

Winter sent him curling up close to home, in the kind of retreat he tried to warn her he so often falls prey to. The cold has begun to creep into his bones, the past few years, and he hates to even risk slipping on the ice. It's far easier to stay down here, in the warmth and comfort of his books and his cats. He feels a little guilty for it, but with spring, it seems time to make an effort to come out of hibernation. His invitation is tentative, since she's been busy serving her Lady over the winter, and having her visit him isn't much of a step outside himself, but he's trying. With a table laid out for tea, Horvath awaits his guest, while the cats demand his attention simply because they can sense his quiet anxieties.
bitterguardian: (little smile)
After years of living in his subterranean home around the vault, Horvath is unused to being woken by sunlight. To fall asleep comfortably sunk deep in a plush chair is familiar, but the chair is not his own, and to wake with a cat sleeping on him, and another running around playing is familiar, but these are not his cats and there are more than two. Also he rarely has the foresight to pull a blanket over himself. To feel so much at home in a place that is not his home comes as a strange surprise.

Last night before he dozed off in the chair, however, he had a great deal of food and alcohol, and his body would urgently like to remind him of that fact. He's grateful for the new set of crutches in easy reach, and he hauls himself up on them and swings along off to the bathroom, letting the cats scatter in his wake.

Once he's tended to the basics, and ascertained that while he is hung over, it's not a bad one, he notices the note from his host conveniently stabbed through on a prong of the antlers around the bathroom mirror. She had some foresight, indeed.

Bonjour Max! I hope that your sleep was a deep, healing one and that you woke to a better day! I had an errand to run early this morn, and might not make it back in time to be there when you wake. So! There is food, coffee, tea - and I shall return with fresh eggs for breakfast if you sleep so long.
Mara


The towels from yesterday have been replaced with clean ones, his clothes are washed and mended on the bed, and there's the salve still waiting back on the footstool beside the chair in which he slept. Thanks to the ambient light of day waking him, it's not late by any means, so he takes time to wash, to put salve and a bandage over the blistered stump of his leg, and to dress in his own clothes once more. When he emerges to investigate the kitchen, Horvath feels more like himself than he has since his encounter with Shub niggurath sent him questing. Pantleg folded up and tucked neatly (a trick he learned back in the army hospital when he was first learning to adapt to the amputation), moving faster on the new crutches than he can with a cane, he murmurs to the cats, and seeks out a cup of tea to help drive away the vestiges of a headache that's not strong enough to dampen a good mood.

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Maxim Horvath

March 2016

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