Post by Joliette Thorne on Jun 9, 2007 5:21:01 GMT -5
Tenebrae was lounging in a chair by the hearth, head resting on one arm of that overstuffed furnishing, her hair a fall of ebon silk trailing over it. Crimson-booted legs were draped over the opposite. Peridot eyes reflected amber in the flicker of the firelight's glow, the necromancer absorbed in images that rose and fell amid the mercurial flames. These, too, cast glimmers of rufous light on the six-inch metal spikes that served her for heels, her feet crossed at the ankles. In one hand she dandled a long-stemmed narrow glass of brilliant green liquid, a potent liquor distilled from the poison wormwood. A soft sigh was breathed over rosy lips, sooty lashes half-lidded as she basked catlike in the warmth. A rare moment, this, and one she so far shared with nobody -- the tavern was all but empty save for the dwarven barkeep, who knew better than to disturb her, and a lone drunkard past his last, forehead-down and snoring at the bar.
The now-dark streets of Kelay twisted this way and that, each corner spotted with lantern light that cast dark shadows across the face of the hurrying Garath, his pierced façade refracting the flickering light bitterly. Shoulders hunched and a scowl marring his features, the rain drummed upon his skull like an Orcish tribe to war; he quickened his pace. The inviting glow of the local tavern beckoned him, a hand tapping his belt to make sure his purse remained; those bastard bandits hadn’t known what hit them. Unconsciously his left hand straddled the hilt of his weapon, the silver dirk that swayed by his side with all the allure of some regal courtier. Releasing his hold of the weapon the youth pushed his entrance to the bar, opaque lenses of his glasses removed to aid his vision before being replaced; the world blossomed in the multitude of reds once more. Empty. The sodden attire that adorned his thin frame clung to his torso and legs. He needed the hearth. Disregarding the sleeping drunk and the head of hair that must have been the keep behind the counter, he made straight for the feline-esque female lounging by the fireside, “Things are lookin’ up.” He grinned coyly, lips jack-knifing upward with approval. The tail of his coat trailed along the floor like a shallow stream of ebony, pointed contrast to the alabaster of his flesh. The flames sang out to him and he crossed the distance with nimble steps, making only the slightest hint of noise as he reached out to be ensnared by the oncoming warmth. “’bout time.”
Tenebrae had been lulled to a light doze by the mesmeric shifting of flames, the gentle pop and crackle of the coals; her drink tilted dangerously toward spillage in the loosened grip that held it. Torpid half-dreams fleeted through her mind, snapshot nightmare flashes interspersed with sensual memories, the taste of carmine feasting and the rich scent of fear on waiting flesh. Rosy lips parted to murmur soft sounds, eyelids flickered now and then.
Thus she lay, like some corrupt, enchanted princess waiting for a saviour's kiss, until the door banged open and the wind and Garath blew in together. Not that she was aware of it - or him - immediately. The chill of the gust hit heated skin, and approaching boots sounded on the boards. Dreams fled in tatters; eyes snapped open, her body brought as upright as it got in the confines of that deep-sprung armchair. With blatant scrutiny she eyed the stranger who, by the time she'd woken already had gained the fireside and had his back to her. Something about his casually tensile stance told her this one was likely to be trouble.
The albino assassin’s attention rested solely on the fire at this stage in time, events, movements and even sounds all lost to the roaring endearment that was the flames; their crimson and orange hues battling for precedence over one another, although to Garath they were little more than concentrated and diluted licks of cerise, the aesthetic glasses upon his face making it so only sources of heat could be seen. With a predatory snap he turned about suddenly, the cornea of pure marble-blue eyes narrowing as he regarded those about him; lost to reverie like a wet ear, foolish. Of course, with his pivoting of figure, the svelte form of the dark stranger was easily noted, and her change in position. His world reeled— he’d never forget this one. “Joli!?” He exclaimed with a hint of eagerness, for an elf of his years that was the human equivalent of throwing a parade in her honour. “What in the name of Sven are you doing here,” A wry look cast toward the barkeep transpired, his demeanour clearly overly-excited, “This dive…” Belatedly a white brow rose, clearly he remember where the vampiress used to reside, there wasn’t even the need to say it. Whatever silence there was to descend was broken by the melodic tone of his voice once more, despite the somewhat thuggish attributes he had picked up in his life, “What are ya still standin’ for? Come here..”
The woman half the world, or so it seemed, at times, had come to know as Tenebrae - prefaced with 'Mistress', no less, or quite as often 'that bitch' - sat like a stunned goat, widened eyes and jaw slack, for a few ponderous moments, gaping at the pale-fleshed, pierced and loutish lad that stood above her. She'd glanced up from visions of the past, only to find herself looking at one -- a memory of her early days on Vailkrin's unforgiving streets, of pick-pocketing and shoplifting; partners in crime, they were thick as thieves, running pell-mell down the cobbled lanes, laughing almost too hard to keep breath in their bodies...
The vampiress swung those garish red boots down in a single fluid motion from the chair's arm and was on her feet in half a moment. Incredulity still stamped on her delicate features, she stepped toward the apparent youth. "Bloody hell... Garath? It .. it can't be you..." Tene's lips broke to a wide grin, then. "Gods, it's you! Look at you, you ferret! C'mere, you say? Aye, and that I'll do..."
One more step, another, and to any observing it may have seemed the reunion was to go swimmingly, perhaps a fond embrace inserted at this point. Not these onlookers, nor Garath himself, might have expected the flying punch delivered toward his face via a small and tightly bunched vampiric fist.
The elf could only look on in shock at the woman before him as she rose to her feet, she hadn’t changed an iota, with a hint of regret he knew what that meant; they didn’t bottle eternal life in this age, or the next, likely. Idly he regarded her, or what little he could, the main areas of warmth within her tiny frame, all the usual places; nodal centres of the system. One was odd, her hand, the heat from the clenched fist cried out like a warning beacon to the elf. Deft reflexes and a honed skill for the unexpected brought his right arm up, the forearm taking the punishing blow of the vampiress; the parchment features of the youth apparent twisting somewhat. With a smooth twist of his appendage his digits snake out to grasp her arm before it can retract, the grip none-too-soft. “Joli, not that I shouldn’t expect such a greeting from ya, but, what did I do to deserve it?” Dropping his head in slight, he peered out over the rims of his spectacles the milky-marble of his destroyed pupils and irises staring directly into the frosted pools that were Joliette’s.
There was none of the vile rage that usually accompanied such a move on the necromancer's part, as her erstwhile friend clutched her arm, likely preventing a second swing, to judge by the brief and half-hearted struggle she put up. She did look pretty damned anoyed about something, though.
"D'you remember, Garath ..." She spoke his name as though it were a profanity. "The last time I saw you? That day we arranged to meet up by the fountain? We were meant do over those two shops at the end of the street." Her eyes flashed with an amber sheen, her tone accusatory, and the question obviously rhetorical as she gave the half-breed no opportunity to reply. "And you stood me up, for that manky bird you met in the Hanging Corpse?" Once more, rhetoric. "I was nabbed, wasn't I? In an alley, out looking for you. Me and that mad elf I used to knock about with, what was her name? Anyways..." The vampiress' forefinger was extended, jabbing into the leather lapel of his jacket. "We were going to sneak up and hide, and piff things at you whiles you were snogging. But we got jumped, didn't we...? Pack of ruddy vampires." Her jaw tightened, as she flashed him a dark look. "If you'd just for once managed to keep your tongue in your own bloody mouth..."
Garath recoiled under the vehemence of her words, the inflection to the reciting of his name sent a tremor along his spine; this wasn’t leading anywhere pretty. The fountain. Of course. Slowly his fingers unfurled from about her rest falling to his side with a lethargic sense of guilt, he deserved whatever she threw at him next.
“How could I forget..” He muttered intermittently, his voice a crooning to relive the years once again. Each jab of her finger felt like the toll of his closest friends death all over again, the empty coffin and the decrepit cross he left in her memory under the fields of twilight. Listening intently he placed his right hand on his left bared bicep rubbing it up and down absently as if he were cold. Cold? The elf was frigid with guilt. Mutely he listened to the words of Joli, nodding his apologies wherever he could, and succumbing to nothing short of barked laughter at her final sentence.
“Y’know, I’m sorry for what I did. Hell, I apologized every night thereafter, till you were naught more than a faded dream of times past. Now you stand before me…alive…will you accept each and every one?”
Tenebrae's frown faltered as Garath stroked her hair, murmured in a voice her mind had all but forgotten. Compressed lips unpursed, and the arctic chill of her glare softened to little a slightly chagrined blinking; accusatory finger retracted, she unfurled her opposite and ready fist, hands dropping to her sides.
"You did?" Her expression gained greater ease, even the chagrin replaced with something that might have been clemency. "You remembered me, for all the centuries?" A smile quirked the corners of her lips, a pause given before she could bring herself to speak again. "Ah, you great lump..." A sheen of crimson washed over her eyes, as Tenebrae—a name he wouldn’t know— opened slender arms, the creak of well-worn leather heard as she wrapped them around the assassin's midriff tightly. "I missed you, you know. All this time..." This, spoken into the lapel she'd been jabbing a moment ago, the vampiress' pale forehead pressed hard to Garath's breastbone.
Garath is seemingly oblivious to the full effect of the moment, apprehensively opening his arms to allow the woman better access to his waist line. “Aye, that I did. In truth, you’re the closest thing I’ve had to a friend…not even that bint you used to run with was anyway close to me.” A hand was brought up toward her head and allowed to glide down the ebony river of hair in what he assumed to be a comforting gesture, his milky features creasing slightly as he closed his eyes. At length he finally removed himself from the embrace, shooting the smaller female a quick smile, “I tell y’what, as penance, I’ll follow you about and lend you my blade…hop when you say toad, and all that. I’ve learned a trick or two since yesteryear. I’d say we could fleece this place dry,” another pointed look at the tavern about him, “Well, not ‘this’ place.”
Tapping his belt line once more, he quirked a brow and looked to Joliette, he should have expected as much. Garath could only smile as he eyed her carefully, his lips dangerously thin as he plotted his form of attack. “Say, Jols. You haven’t seen my coin sack have you? It appears I mislaid it when you gave me that all too warm and friendly embrace…” A poor attempt at a wink could barely be seen behind his lenses, “..A cheap trick that was, dearest. Oh how good it is to see you again.”
Tenebrae coughed softly, Machiavellian twinkle agleam in the depths her peridot gaze, now widened and blinking innocently. Tene, an ingénue? With a subtle smirk, the hand that'd creep behind her back was drawn forward, the said pouch clutched in slender fingers. Her lips twisted to a smirk. "Never could fool you, could I, pet?" Nick stuff from the meister of pickpocketry? Hardly. She handed the sack over, laughing. "I think p'raps we might need a trip to the old stamping grounds. For old time's sake. Kick up a fuss, like. You in it?"
Garath ’s redundant gaze jack-knifes toward Syadon, the cobalt and pale white of his cornea a glimmer with reticent emote. Purse of lip and tip of head, the elf chooses silence; contemplation clear from the poise at which he remains. “Aye, let’s do that.” Of absent mind he takes the pouch, a hand placed to the vampiress’ shoulder as he urges her south, one last telling look trailing toward Syadon as departure is granted.
The now-dark streets of Kelay twisted this way and that, each corner spotted with lantern light that cast dark shadows across the face of the hurrying Garath, his pierced façade refracting the flickering light bitterly. Shoulders hunched and a scowl marring his features, the rain drummed upon his skull like an Orcish tribe to war; he quickened his pace. The inviting glow of the local tavern beckoned him, a hand tapping his belt to make sure his purse remained; those bastard bandits hadn’t known what hit them. Unconsciously his left hand straddled the hilt of his weapon, the silver dirk that swayed by his side with all the allure of some regal courtier. Releasing his hold of the weapon the youth pushed his entrance to the bar, opaque lenses of his glasses removed to aid his vision before being replaced; the world blossomed in the multitude of reds once more. Empty. The sodden attire that adorned his thin frame clung to his torso and legs. He needed the hearth. Disregarding the sleeping drunk and the head of hair that must have been the keep behind the counter, he made straight for the feline-esque female lounging by the fireside, “Things are lookin’ up.” He grinned coyly, lips jack-knifing upward with approval. The tail of his coat trailed along the floor like a shallow stream of ebony, pointed contrast to the alabaster of his flesh. The flames sang out to him and he crossed the distance with nimble steps, making only the slightest hint of noise as he reached out to be ensnared by the oncoming warmth. “’bout time.”
Tenebrae had been lulled to a light doze by the mesmeric shifting of flames, the gentle pop and crackle of the coals; her drink tilted dangerously toward spillage in the loosened grip that held it. Torpid half-dreams fleeted through her mind, snapshot nightmare flashes interspersed with sensual memories, the taste of carmine feasting and the rich scent of fear on waiting flesh. Rosy lips parted to murmur soft sounds, eyelids flickered now and then.
Thus she lay, like some corrupt, enchanted princess waiting for a saviour's kiss, until the door banged open and the wind and Garath blew in together. Not that she was aware of it - or him - immediately. The chill of the gust hit heated skin, and approaching boots sounded on the boards. Dreams fled in tatters; eyes snapped open, her body brought as upright as it got in the confines of that deep-sprung armchair. With blatant scrutiny she eyed the stranger who, by the time she'd woken already had gained the fireside and had his back to her. Something about his casually tensile stance told her this one was likely to be trouble.
The albino assassin’s attention rested solely on the fire at this stage in time, events, movements and even sounds all lost to the roaring endearment that was the flames; their crimson and orange hues battling for precedence over one another, although to Garath they were little more than concentrated and diluted licks of cerise, the aesthetic glasses upon his face making it so only sources of heat could be seen. With a predatory snap he turned about suddenly, the cornea of pure marble-blue eyes narrowing as he regarded those about him; lost to reverie like a wet ear, foolish. Of course, with his pivoting of figure, the svelte form of the dark stranger was easily noted, and her change in position. His world reeled— he’d never forget this one. “Joli!?” He exclaimed with a hint of eagerness, for an elf of his years that was the human equivalent of throwing a parade in her honour. “What in the name of Sven are you doing here,” A wry look cast toward the barkeep transpired, his demeanour clearly overly-excited, “This dive…” Belatedly a white brow rose, clearly he remember where the vampiress used to reside, there wasn’t even the need to say it. Whatever silence there was to descend was broken by the melodic tone of his voice once more, despite the somewhat thuggish attributes he had picked up in his life, “What are ya still standin’ for? Come here..”
The woman half the world, or so it seemed, at times, had come to know as Tenebrae - prefaced with 'Mistress', no less, or quite as often 'that bitch' - sat like a stunned goat, widened eyes and jaw slack, for a few ponderous moments, gaping at the pale-fleshed, pierced and loutish lad that stood above her. She'd glanced up from visions of the past, only to find herself looking at one -- a memory of her early days on Vailkrin's unforgiving streets, of pick-pocketing and shoplifting; partners in crime, they were thick as thieves, running pell-mell down the cobbled lanes, laughing almost too hard to keep breath in their bodies...
The vampiress swung those garish red boots down in a single fluid motion from the chair's arm and was on her feet in half a moment. Incredulity still stamped on her delicate features, she stepped toward the apparent youth. "Bloody hell... Garath? It .. it can't be you..." Tene's lips broke to a wide grin, then. "Gods, it's you! Look at you, you ferret! C'mere, you say? Aye, and that I'll do..."
One more step, another, and to any observing it may have seemed the reunion was to go swimmingly, perhaps a fond embrace inserted at this point. Not these onlookers, nor Garath himself, might have expected the flying punch delivered toward his face via a small and tightly bunched vampiric fist.
The elf could only look on in shock at the woman before him as she rose to her feet, she hadn’t changed an iota, with a hint of regret he knew what that meant; they didn’t bottle eternal life in this age, or the next, likely. Idly he regarded her, or what little he could, the main areas of warmth within her tiny frame, all the usual places; nodal centres of the system. One was odd, her hand, the heat from the clenched fist cried out like a warning beacon to the elf. Deft reflexes and a honed skill for the unexpected brought his right arm up, the forearm taking the punishing blow of the vampiress; the parchment features of the youth apparent twisting somewhat. With a smooth twist of his appendage his digits snake out to grasp her arm before it can retract, the grip none-too-soft. “Joli, not that I shouldn’t expect such a greeting from ya, but, what did I do to deserve it?” Dropping his head in slight, he peered out over the rims of his spectacles the milky-marble of his destroyed pupils and irises staring directly into the frosted pools that were Joliette’s.
There was none of the vile rage that usually accompanied such a move on the necromancer's part, as her erstwhile friend clutched her arm, likely preventing a second swing, to judge by the brief and half-hearted struggle she put up. She did look pretty damned anoyed about something, though.
"D'you remember, Garath ..." She spoke his name as though it were a profanity. "The last time I saw you? That day we arranged to meet up by the fountain? We were meant do over those two shops at the end of the street." Her eyes flashed with an amber sheen, her tone accusatory, and the question obviously rhetorical as she gave the half-breed no opportunity to reply. "And you stood me up, for that manky bird you met in the Hanging Corpse?" Once more, rhetoric. "I was nabbed, wasn't I? In an alley, out looking for you. Me and that mad elf I used to knock about with, what was her name? Anyways..." The vampiress' forefinger was extended, jabbing into the leather lapel of his jacket. "We were going to sneak up and hide, and piff things at you whiles you were snogging. But we got jumped, didn't we...? Pack of ruddy vampires." Her jaw tightened, as she flashed him a dark look. "If you'd just for once managed to keep your tongue in your own bloody mouth..."
Garath recoiled under the vehemence of her words, the inflection to the reciting of his name sent a tremor along his spine; this wasn’t leading anywhere pretty. The fountain. Of course. Slowly his fingers unfurled from about her rest falling to his side with a lethargic sense of guilt, he deserved whatever she threw at him next.
“How could I forget..” He muttered intermittently, his voice a crooning to relive the years once again. Each jab of her finger felt like the toll of his closest friends death all over again, the empty coffin and the decrepit cross he left in her memory under the fields of twilight. Listening intently he placed his right hand on his left bared bicep rubbing it up and down absently as if he were cold. Cold? The elf was frigid with guilt. Mutely he listened to the words of Joli, nodding his apologies wherever he could, and succumbing to nothing short of barked laughter at her final sentence.
“Y’know, I’m sorry for what I did. Hell, I apologized every night thereafter, till you were naught more than a faded dream of times past. Now you stand before me…alive…will you accept each and every one?”
Tenebrae's frown faltered as Garath stroked her hair, murmured in a voice her mind had all but forgotten. Compressed lips unpursed, and the arctic chill of her glare softened to little a slightly chagrined blinking; accusatory finger retracted, she unfurled her opposite and ready fist, hands dropping to her sides.
"You did?" Her expression gained greater ease, even the chagrin replaced with something that might have been clemency. "You remembered me, for all the centuries?" A smile quirked the corners of her lips, a pause given before she could bring herself to speak again. "Ah, you great lump..." A sheen of crimson washed over her eyes, as Tenebrae—a name he wouldn’t know— opened slender arms, the creak of well-worn leather heard as she wrapped them around the assassin's midriff tightly. "I missed you, you know. All this time..." This, spoken into the lapel she'd been jabbing a moment ago, the vampiress' pale forehead pressed hard to Garath's breastbone.
Garath is seemingly oblivious to the full effect of the moment, apprehensively opening his arms to allow the woman better access to his waist line. “Aye, that I did. In truth, you’re the closest thing I’ve had to a friend…not even that bint you used to run with was anyway close to me.” A hand was brought up toward her head and allowed to glide down the ebony river of hair in what he assumed to be a comforting gesture, his milky features creasing slightly as he closed his eyes. At length he finally removed himself from the embrace, shooting the smaller female a quick smile, “I tell y’what, as penance, I’ll follow you about and lend you my blade…hop when you say toad, and all that. I’ve learned a trick or two since yesteryear. I’d say we could fleece this place dry,” another pointed look at the tavern about him, “Well, not ‘this’ place.”
Tapping his belt line once more, he quirked a brow and looked to Joliette, he should have expected as much. Garath could only smile as he eyed her carefully, his lips dangerously thin as he plotted his form of attack. “Say, Jols. You haven’t seen my coin sack have you? It appears I mislaid it when you gave me that all too warm and friendly embrace…” A poor attempt at a wink could barely be seen behind his lenses, “..A cheap trick that was, dearest. Oh how good it is to see you again.”
Tenebrae coughed softly, Machiavellian twinkle agleam in the depths her peridot gaze, now widened and blinking innocently. Tene, an ingénue? With a subtle smirk, the hand that'd creep behind her back was drawn forward, the said pouch clutched in slender fingers. Her lips twisted to a smirk. "Never could fool you, could I, pet?" Nick stuff from the meister of pickpocketry? Hardly. She handed the sack over, laughing. "I think p'raps we might need a trip to the old stamping grounds. For old time's sake. Kick up a fuss, like. You in it?"
Garath ’s redundant gaze jack-knifes toward Syadon, the cobalt and pale white of his cornea a glimmer with reticent emote. Purse of lip and tip of head, the elf chooses silence; contemplation clear from the poise at which he remains. “Aye, let’s do that.” Of absent mind he takes the pouch, a hand placed to the vampiress’ shoulder as he urges her south, one last telling look trailing toward Syadon as departure is granted.