"Is this what the Irish Sanctuary comes to in my absence? Tsk, tsk. Here I go on an extended holiday, expecting to have left my dearly beloved country in good hands, and I arrive to find assassinations galore have been going on in my absence. And no one even told me I was missing the fun stuff."
Dexter Vex was a man of many things. Adventure. Good looks. He'd been, quite literally, all over the world in the century and more since the war ended. It had been a good time. Worthwhile.
He'd been running. He knew it and his friends back home had known it, and yet he hadn't been able to muster the desire to go back. Even after a century, it was all too raw. He wasn't strong like Skulduggery, able to face down the demons who'd murdered his family. He'd just been able to honour the people he'd lost in the only way he could. The only way he knew how.
He'd only been able to apologise to one of them in the only way he'd known how.
But, eventually, one must always go home. Dexter had known one day he would; he'd just been putting that day off. It had been easier because he'd been deliberately avoiding finding out what was happening in Ireland. If he didn't know, he couldn't be lured back in.
Of course, eventually he had to find out.
Eventually he had to want to come back.
Eventually he had to put aside the stupid wig and broken shoes he'd been wearing since before the war ended. It had been a long time. He wasn't even sure he knew how to be Dex anymore. Then again, being Rue hadn't been much better. He felt more like he could cope with being Dex, though. Even though his suit was wrinkled because he hadn't worn it in just that long. At least he'd showered and shaved and brushed his hair, and the wrinkles weren't that noticeable anyway. (They were.)
The Adept was half-sure the news that his old general and one of his old comrades were actually leaders of the country was a joke when he arrived at the Sanctuary. It had taken a bit of manouvring to get around the Cleavers ... mostly because he'd waited until the Cleavers were occupied down the corridor and then slipped into the office Corrival had just started to open when he'd been called away.
A bit of time to glance around, to test the plush armchair facing the small reading table in the corner, back to the office ...
Dexter spun around on it, legs crossed and grinning, relaxed as if the office was his. (Relaxed, that is, aside from the faint rings around his eyes and the wrinkles in his suit.)
"Congratulations, Grand Mage," he said cheerfully, and his grin widened as Corrival winced. "And you, Elder Ravel. Finally, someone's realised his age. Are you going to be checking into an old man's home any day now?"
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Dexter Vex was a man of many things. Adventure. Good looks. He'd been, quite literally, all over the world in the century and more since the war ended. It had been a good time. Worthwhile.
He'd been running. He knew it and his friends back home had known it, and yet he hadn't been able to muster the desire to go back. Even after a century, it was all too raw. He wasn't strong like Skulduggery, able to face down the demons who'd murdered his family. He'd just been able to honour the people he'd lost in the only way he could. The only way he knew how.
He'd only been able to apologise to one of them in the only way he'd known how.
But, eventually, one must always go home. Dexter had known one day he would; he'd just been putting that day off. It had been easier because he'd been deliberately avoiding finding out what was happening in Ireland. If he didn't know, he couldn't be lured back in.
Of course, eventually he had to find out.
Eventually he had to want to come back.
Eventually he had to put aside the stupid wig and broken shoes he'd been wearing since before the war ended. It had been a long time. He wasn't even sure he knew how to be Dex anymore. Then again, being Rue hadn't been much better. He felt more like he could cope with being Dex, though. Even though his suit was wrinkled because he hadn't worn it in just that long. At least he'd showered and shaved and brushed his hair, and the wrinkles weren't that noticeable anyway. (They were.)
The Adept was half-sure the news that his old general and one of his old comrades were actually leaders of the country was a joke when he arrived at the Sanctuary. It had taken a bit of manouvring to get around the Cleavers ... mostly because he'd waited until the Cleavers were occupied down the corridor and then slipped into the office Corrival had just started to open when he'd been called away.
A bit of time to glance around, to test the plush armchair facing the small reading table in the corner, back to the office ...
Dexter spun around on it, legs crossed and grinning, relaxed as if the office was his. (Relaxed, that is, aside from the faint rings around his eyes and the wrinkles in his suit.)
"Congratulations, Grand Mage," he said cheerfully, and his grin widened as Corrival winced. "And you, Elder Ravel. Finally, someone's realised his age. Are you going to be checking into an old man's home any day now?"