Bumping Uglies (Naama)

[Ulric]

83rd of Fall, 511 AV

Ulric leaned back against the rough, speckled granite of the statue, biting his lip as he sought to vanish in the inky embrace of night. That was easier said than done, though. The torches set in brackets around the empty square cast a faint orange glow over his splayed boots, his dark, muddy jerkin, the forlorn carcass of a raven lying on the edge of a murky puddle. There was a slender chain of silver fastened around its necks, which meant that it had once, most likely, belonged to some corpulent, revoltingly wealthy magnate with seven chins and a bad case of gout. “They’re going to blame me for this, aren’t they?” He gave a dismal grunt, hoisted the clay jug of wine to his lips and gulped down the sour red, more vinegar than anything. Rotgut, he frowned, but kept drinking, resting the side of his head against the hugely monstrous, engorged cock that jutted from a nest of coarse stony hair. He just kept staring at the raven, scratching his chin.

Perhaps life was just a parade of corpses, filing one after the other past some shrouded clerk who kept tallying up the sums of their bleak existences on sheets of yellow, cracking paper with a frugal stub of chalk, pink tongue licking out nervously to waft the reek of fusty lentils.

“Maybe we should eat it?” Ulric turned his face to regard Desank, who for reasons unknown, had neglected both tusks and crumpled horns, and was favoring a set of pulsating tendrils that evoked the braided mane of a horse. The guise was so utterly absurd that Ulric could hardly glance at his Gasvik without bursting into peals of laughter, which meant Desank had been sulking for most of the day.

“Jawmo petch,” was the growled reply, nothing more.

“Seriously, why not?” Ulric sucked greedily at the rim of his jug, licking up the swollen beads that were in mortal danger of trickling down the tapering sides, then took another gulp. “The thing must be relatively fresh, if there aren’t any flies swarming around and laying eggs, and besides, it would be wasteful to just leave it lying there. We’d make a fire, of course, and then you can have the first bite – just because I know you’re particular about your meat. And not because I’m growing fond of you or anything,” he slurred, wagging a finger. “Ulric isn’t soft or anything, y’know. Ulric doesn’t care about anybody or anything, or-” Pausing, he scowled darkly and drank again, scratched his chest, and flung a burly arm over the penis. “Ulric needs to speak the truth more often,” he growled. Not that it would do me any good.

“Yasn aodnf aubf, weian adbbf on weaib,” grunted the Gasvik, scrambling up and stalking around the statue, out of sight.

Ulric stared woefully into his jug. “Where’s the wine gone?”

[Naama]

"Are we there yet?" The voice came from an adolescent child, possibly no older than ten, striding beside a tall, curvaceous woman with bronze skin and cascading ebony locks. There was a subtle sway to her hips as she moved, their footsteps echoing off the sullen walls of the little alleyway. "I wouldn't know, sweet thing. This city seems to have it out for making you as frustrated as a bitch in heat. Though it'd be the perfect hiding place for someone's filched goods." The halfbreed stepped over a tumbled pile of rotten vegetables, adjusting her leather jerkin as she went. "But I'm tiiiiired," Drawled Squirt, "Isn't there an inn or something around here?" Sometimes Naama had half the mind to slice that tongue right out of his mouth, but for the moment she rolled her eyes and glanced behind at him, "We followed the directions from that awefully nice old woman several bells ago, but as you can see, Squirt, these buildings move. Or, just petch with your head, really. I've no idea where we are." Ocassionally she'd wonder why she had even set foot in this city to begin with. She'd heard of Alvadas and its notable reputation for driving people up the wall with its constantly moving scenery, but curiosity, and the growing need for provisions, got the best of her. And so they had ended up here, in the heart of the illusionist's city, observing structures oddly shaped into large tankards, or others as dainty little ships, as if taunting her into oblivion. It had grown late, the sun sank on the horizon and brought forth the chill of night, with a crown of stars overhead, yet still, they wandered. It wasn't until several minutes later that they came upon the square with its unusual visitor and rather unorthodox decoration, except in place of a cock, it was a pair of large, sagging breasts carved from stone. The sight brought a fond smirk to her lips, but Squirt was resigned to simply staring at the pair of tits so prominently displayed for his pleasure. "Would that a drunk could help us out, ey?" Naama called as she strode across the square toward the stranger, "We're as lost as a whore in a temple. Would you happen to know where we can fill our poor, starving bellies with plenty of beer, at the very least?"

[Ulric]

Ulric left the jug by his side, his mouth opening slightly to emanate a wet, rumbling belch, and scratched at his chin. Rattle-rattle. With a scowl, he reached for his curved knife, discerning a peripheral shifting of the shadow cover. “Somebody approaches,” he growled lamely, for he could already hear the clump of shoes on the dirty stones, that strange, almost menacing clatter. He didn’t seek to get up, though, just peered down the alley, saw a pair of dark shapes in the winding rift between the behemoths of timber, brick and crumbling plaster – one that was clearly a child, and the other much taller. A woman, he knew by the sultry sway of her hips, though the curved contours of swords were perhaps even more arousing to him. Either way, he swiftly grew hard, nearly as hard as the statue, which had already transmuted.

Idly, he cupped a breast, finger circling a stony teat as the stranger made to approach him, show a gleam of white in her dusky face. Her words were strangely accented, though he knew not from where. Not that he listened very closely, though. He was more pleasurably engaged in raping her with his dark, smoldering eyes, staring hungrily at her long, shapely legs, the swell of her chest covered by strings of beads and bones, the irregular splotches of what he took as white paint. “I’m not drunk,” he growled with a slight slur, finally lurching to his feet. “I’m out of wine, so how can I be drunk?”

Ulric had always been deft with logic.

“Would that you were a whore,” he shifted his shoulders, making his muscles bunch, slightly annoyed that she stood at nearly his own height. “But you can never find anything in this shyking city. I may know where to find you beds and beer, but can I find the place?” He shook his head, gave a derisive snort. “I’ve been trying to find my shack since forever, but as you can clearly see, even gods can’t find their comfy beds.”

Ulric cocked his head. “Are you sure you aren’t a whore?”

[Naama]

"Just a poor damsel in distress, is all," Naama replied with a wink. "You're not a damsel." "Quiet you." Eyes made of the same inky hue of night adjusted to the not-so-empty square and rested upon the stranger's face. A man, gruff and unrefined, poised for any threat, and not to mention much more handsome than the gorillas she'd encountered throughout her trip here. It was safe to say no one would ever replace Hawkins, but Naama hadn't quite overcome her desire to satisfy her sinful lusts. Such a shame. "Oh shoot. And here I thought I could take advantage of a drunk man's body without being reprimanded." There was a feigned disappointment to her tone. And yet there was the faint smell of wine in the air. Tsk tsk. "Some people fancy calling me a slattern or a whore, but I'm foremost a fighter than a lover. Frolicking in the bedsheets after a long day's raid is just a bonus." She stepped closer, a hand on her hip, the other resting just beside the hilt of her sword. For as much as she might have appeared lax, the halfbreed always practiced the teachings of her Myrian people; that is, strict awareness. He may have looked like some lout one might pull out from the slums of Sunberth but men always hid something alarming, whether it be from their undergarments or not. "If only those pair of breasts would become an inn, or a bar... Mm, yes, I could do with a bar. Do you hear that Ionu?" She glanced up, as if expecting to find the devilish grin of a god in the stars, "Well, since these blasted gods never listen, my name is Naama," she gestured toward the boy beside her, "And this is Squirt. That is the extent of my pleasantries until I find some liquor."

[Ulric]

Right, so she’s a deadly tart, then. Ulric grunted, giving the grubby youth a sidelong glance. Even in the orange glow, the deep rings of whorled dirt around his neck were palpable, the shock of dark, grimy hair jutting up like a rooster’s comb. “Don’t you feed the wretch?” He made as though to rumple those locks, hardly thinking of the pungent residue they’d leave on his palms, but was luckily rescued from that grisly insight by an abrupt tug on his elbow.

“Yahs adubf oadnn aibwe,” grumbled the Gasvik. “Uadn iabfb abfo ln fbub yvasd aioon ibabu domfp.”

Ulric just gave a shrug. “Naama, was it? Naama, of the eyes blacker than night itself. Naama, of the tousled sheets. Naama, with the intriguing hips.” With a wry grimace, he looked intently into those empty, empty orbs, wondering at the absence of color, the lack of milky irises. Not from around here, that’s for certain. Absently drumming fingertips on the haft of his dagger, he cleared his throat and pointed up at the violent, ruddy sky. There seemed to be a flaming crescent of meteor, which meant Ionu’s demeanor hadn’t shifted for the better. The lanes were mostly deserted, a whisper of danger lurking over the bare roofs, shadows lengthening and reaching out as if to grasp the necks of the unwary.

“Those blasted gods may not listen, but this one does,” Ulric winked, extending his arms to either side. “Weapons,” he growled, and the heavy, round shield seemed to float through the air, straps lifting over his wrist.

“Inas abfb boanadfn,” grumbled Desank, clearly uneasy at having to betray his otherwise unobtrusive presence. “Kash abf aonfd.” Ulric gave him a vague, nearly apologetic shake of his chin, taking the spiked, bearded axe from his archaic guardian and slinging it over his shoulder. We can’t keep on hiding forever, you know.

He was also past the point of caring.

“Ur-Xhyvas, incarnate, at your service,” he smirked, “Though for now I am merely Ulric.” Though he let the words hang, he wasn’t about to expand upon them. Not even if they drove spikes through his ankles and hung him over a pit of angry red coals. “You wanted liquor, right? Your monkey seems like he's in need of a drink, too.” He gestured for them to follow along in his wake, turning his broad back to the shadowy maw of a slate-roofed alley that hadn’t been there scant moments earlier.

Baring his fangs, the Gasvik reached over and gave Naama a stinging pat on the face. Squirt would presently be swept up like a sack of flour, unable to see or hear his bearer, only to feel the startlingly strong, scaly arms winding around his scrawny frame. “Oason adon ibabf ubadbf, petch aidnfi qin. Aub oabfub boan ij ubaydv oqhw, iadbb auvudb pjasn ubavy ub yaodn.”

[Naama]

Squirt puffed his cheeks out vehemently, as if Ulric had just insulted his manhood. But Naama stood with a raised brow, and a look of skepticism that didn't exactly translate in her inscrutable eyes. He was staring at her again, just like every man, woman and child had done the moment she'd stepped into this petching city, and practically any city she'd visited. She was the laughing stock; an exotic wonder; an abomination. Not one or the other; she was neither, the in-between. Some snide remark was about to escape her lips when the weapons seemed to move of their own accord. She blinked, once, twice. Nope, they had moved, without the human's need to heft them into his hands. "Oh petch," she stepped back, surprised and alarmed, all rolled into one. And when Ulric continued to introduce himself Naama couldn't contain it any longer. She laughed. A hysterical laughter straight into the cool night air. Squirt simply stood there, dumbfounded. "You're joking, right? A god, you?" What proof was there but that little display of levitation or whatever the petch it was. Naama cared not for magic or the lust for it. Combat of the physical variety was more appealing. "Xhyvas, Xhyvas... I've never heard, must be a human thing." She shrugged, eyeing the man with a sly smile. "I don't know if you're mad or a magician or a god or whatever, but when there's a promise of liquor, I'm there." And she trailed after him, followed by Squirt, until the poor boy was abruptly swept up in unseen arms, carried off like a magical newborn, struggling and yelping. Naama stood, staring with the most bewildered expression until the pat touched her cheek and she immediately stepped away with a grimace. "Alright, there's a ghost carrying my monkey. Is this your minion, Ulric, Xhyvas---whatever? Tell him no touching."

[Ulric]

Ulric just gave a snort, turning so that his fur cloak swept around his legs. “Don’t ask questions,” he growled, face curling in a trenchant grin, shadows lurking in his eye sockets. “Desank does what I want, and I do whatever I desire, no matter what you might say. I care not for your trifling whims. If he does so again, you will hold your tongue.” He strode closer, hulking and drunk on a heady mix of power, alcohol, and lust.

What the petch?

Abruptly, his eyes narrowed, and he scowled at the faint outline of a door just behind the statue’s splayed legs. What is my shack doing here? Never before, in the season he’d spent living in the chimerical city, had his shack ventured this far inside the rocky, crumbling ramparts. He was perversely annoyed, for after so many days wasted searching, the half-buried structure was right in front of him, wisps of purple smoke curling from the chimney, streaking the pewtery night. “Change of plans,” he said, urging her forward with a strong, insistent hand on her waist. “We’re going in there, and we’re going to get fabulously drunk. Him, too,” he gestured at Squirt. “What sort of lad doesn’t enjoy drinking? Keeps the plague away, y’know.”

Lurching past the statue, he paused for a moment, grasping the stony shoulders for support, and spat a gobbet of phlegm over those hanging, pendulous breasts. You filthy slut, you. He shook his head. If you don’t mind, you can kindly take your reeking cunt away from my shack.

Reaching into his jerkin, he took out the crude, bronzed key that he kept lashed around his neck and thrust it into the lock on his first try, turning with a wry grin. And they say I’m drunk, he grunted.

The door creaked open, and he ducked into a murk broken only by the faintly glowing embers of the fire, taking care not to get his face tangled in the tar-streaked nets hanging from the rafters. “Do mind the pit.”

[Naama]

"Ooh, big boy, aren't you," Naama goaded, "Trifling whims, you say? If that's your way of getting a groveling worshipper out of me, sweet thing, it isn't going to work." She stood stern against his advancement, her gaze the predatory manifestation of her Myrian roots. When he spoke of a change of plans, she glanced behind her, half-expecting to see guards of some sort ready to apprehend them for "disturbing the peace." That was really all they ever did care about, those guards. Instead, she saw the half-exposed, partly crumbled old shack he was referring too. A pitiful looking thing, really, especially when it so starkly contrasted against the buildings that lay scattered throughout this chaotic maze. If that's where a god lives he must be a piss poor one. She snickered, allowing Ulric to shephard her toward the little abode with little struggle. Squirt on the other hand had resigned himself to squirm and kick until the invisible gorilla decided it wasn't worth carrying him anymore. The inside of the shack seemed even more painfully neglected than the outside. "Men just have no taste," She muttered, ducking to avoid the hanging nets and sidestepping away from the murky hole Ulric spoke of. All this for liquor, I must really be doing Hawkins proud. Neither dirt nor grime bothered the halfbreed, so she settled herself against one of the crumbling walls, crossing arms over chest with a curious smile. "So why a shack? I expected a mansion, a room in a lovely little inn, surrounded by whores and booze and the finest cheese in the land. Not some little hole in the ground--literally. Did the other gods decide to give you the knave's share of the booty?"

[Ulric]

Ulric frowned slightly at Naama, knowing that her tongue would find ways to make up for its brazen insolence later on, when the embers faded to ashes and boy was forcibly placed into a slumber if he wasn’t in one already. However, he wasn’t particularly enjoying the verbal lashing against his humble shack, of which he’d become rather fond over the course of the season. “Other gods?” He barked a laugh, drawing his barrel of ale from out of the corner, muscles bunching as he carried it halfway across the room.

“Unasin aodfn, ubad uqwb odnf ibd ojf, gasdn ondfnb?” Desank looked over from beside the sloping pit, Squirt squirming in his grasp, and Ulric gave him a stern glance.

“No, don’t drop him down there, you fool,” He growled. “Just put him down over there, by the bench.” He fetched a pair of clay mugs from the shelf, and a rusty metal tankard into which he poured the dark, rich ale. “I find the rascals tend to get injured that way.”

Ulric handed one mug to Naama, the other to Squirt, and kept the tankard for himself. Not because it was the ugliest, or the dirtiest of the three drinking vessels, but because it was the largest. “Now, as I was saying,” he spoke again, taking a deep gulp, “The other gods are either unaware of my existence, or actively seeking my demise. I’m sadly only a godling, the incarnate of a murdered god, heir and pretender to the dubious throne of transcendence. I suppose you could say that my powers are mainly of whining and waiting, or being hacked into pieces and used for sundry necromantic purposes, none of which sound very pleasant. I may one day come into my power, but for now, I try my best to make it through the days… and the nights.”

He gave a shrug. “The others murdered us a few thousand years ago, so for now it’s mostly shacks. I find they’re good for hiding. I also enjoy the ambience, as they remind me of the city where I was bred. Ravok, the city on the lake. Ever heard of it?”

Ulric belched, took another gulp, and stared pointedly at the shadowy, enticing juxtapose of Naama’s legs, where those sultry hips met her flat belly, and where lurked the promise of unbridled ecstasy. He wasn’t really in the mood, mostly because her brat was staring at him dubiously, but he expected the night would end satisfactorily.

They had ale, after all, so what could go wrong?

[Naama]

Naama quirked a brow. Squirt hollered, "L'emme go, ghost, l'emme go!" And stumbled back towards Naama with a huff and a puff, clearly paranoid the invisible gorilla was going to lift him up in those unnervingly strong arms again. "Can we leave, this guy's a weirdo." "No, Squirt, he has ale, can't you see he's just a pleasant fellow with a ghostly pet following him around?" Naama rolled her eyes and accepted the clay mug. Squirt sniffed at the liquor, his nose bunching up in revolt, but with a shrug of his shoulders he resigned himself to tilting the mug and swallowing what he could, coughing and spluttering. Excess of the liquid dripped off his chin and onto his ragged shirt. Naama drank, enjoying the taste of alcohol on her tongue. It'd been too long, far too long, especially for a sailor. "A godling? Oh, how cute," the halfbreed cooed, taking another sip, "At least you're not trying to pass yourself off as a god of lust, or something inconsequential. I find that there are too many gods, these days. They seem to pop out of the ground... like daisies!" She laughed, the liquor finally calming her tense nerves, as if the lack of it reverted her to a true Myrian. "I know of Ravok," She replied darkly, "Can't say I haven't had some scallywags from that place trail me as if I was some piece of meat to sell to the highest bidder. They took my sister, not that you'd care. But it's one of the reasons I plan to do a little... well... a little cleaning there." She glanced down at her half-empty mug, draining the last of it. "So you're a godling in hiding. How is it one can hide from gods? I could use some tips, that's for sure." Squirt was clawing at the barrel of ale, pouring more into his mug. He seemed tipsy already, swerving around the pit to settle himself on the ground beside Naama. The halfbreed, on the other hand, approached Ulric, scrutinizing him from head to toe. "You're not half bad looking, and you have such pretty eyes." Behind her, Squirt was licking the remnants of the liquor on the rim of his mug, about to head for a third, should he make it past the pit without tripping into it.