Bumping Uglies (Naama)

[Ulric]

Ulric fumbled at the cask, barking a raspy laugh at the boy’s vain, spluttering efforts at drinking. He’s going to be fine, he gave a shrug, abruptly struck with a fading remembrance of his past, the aching spasms of his formerly youthful guts. He just needs some pacing. However, he wasn’t going to offer any words of caution. Even if there was a few, reeking puddles on the floor, he wouldn’t mind as long as he could laugh at the lad’s misfortune.

Taking a seat, he drank greedily, listening closely, perhaps stupidly to that curious accent, while he stared deeply into her inky eyes. He couldn’t fathom those empty depths, and that troubled him. What is she? he frowned, idly wondering if she was some demonically inclined siren, a foul succubus dispatched for his bloody head, preferably dangling in the folds of a rough sack, to feed to some cruel, cloying aspirant. No, she shouldn’t be, he sucked beads from the rusty edge of his tankard. She wouldn’t be clad in those bones. And even then, she’s too insolent, too mocking.

He belched.

Ulric leaned back, stretching languorously, lazily regarding her through a fiery, swirling mist. “You’re a cunt,” he growled, sorely repenting of his choice to lead her into the depths of his tawdry sanctum, only to raise a brow at the mention of lost sister. “She’s probably dead.” He lifted his shoulder in callous shrug, draining the dregs from his tankard. “Don’t you worry, though – when I find the power, I’m going to destroy the whole shyking city, from the lowest beggar to The Voice herself, and then sink those quarters of decaying manses into the darkest depths of the lake. Rhysol has much to answer for, y’see.”

Face curling in a savage grin, he barely heard her last words, just stared into the fire, starkly enraptured by the carnage. “What’s this?” he growled, finally noticing the change in her demeanor, the sway of her hips as she approached him, and not just to probe at the cask.

Petching slut, he frowned, and suddenly he was very angry.

[Naama]

The halfbreed paused. An invisible veil shifted, exposing the cold, callous creature beneath. Just for that instant, she was no longer Naama the Seafarer, there was no hint of the usual crafty glint in her eyes, only the infuriated glare of a predator. Call her any name in the book, curse her until the day she perished, but trigger the raw anger that still simmered beneath the thin veil she held it under; the notion that her sister was forever to be lost because of her own failure, just like her mate, just like her child... It could not be contained. The grip on the clay mug tightened into a vice, and without a thought, the woman slammed it against Ulric's head, shattering it into a multitude of pieces that scattered across the ground. You ignorant petch, she seethed, the gnosis on her thigh surged and ignited, sending waves of energy throughout her body. Naama grasped Ulric by the collar, slamming him viciously against the crumbling wall. Squirt glanced up from his drink to blink at the sudden commotion. "She's not dead." The words strained themselves to escape her lips, but she said them, if anything to reassure herself. "But you, oh little godling, with the lust of blood as I have felt for all of my years. You make this promise and I will stand there as quickly and loyally as any groveling bitch, as long as I have the blood of those who defiled my sister." The bastards who stole her from me. oocLol, I'm expecting a shank any second now.

[Ulric]

Ulric knew it was coming, saw the tensing of her hand, the tautness of her jaw, and knew he could’ve reacted before she lashed out, reducing her to a wet, moaning wreck in a scant handful of moments. But he didn’t.

No, he didn’t even blink, standing fast as the mug hurtled toward his face, lips curling in a menacing grin. He even enjoyed the biting burst of pain from his brow, the warm, crimson threads spurting into his eyes, partly obscuring his vision. The tankard clanged on the ground. “Revenge is yours,” he snarled lowly, leaning closer, his fingers grazing softly against her side. “But don’t you dare call me little.” Ulric flung his head forward, smashing his forehead against her cheek, and then when she reeled away, the back of his hand scoured through the wavering dark, singing across her pretty, mocking mouth. Then he forced her down, fingers splaying out to grasp at her throat, clenching the soft, tawny skin.

“You’re mine now,” he growled, not even caring if she went for a knife, cruel fingers tracing her sloping jaw, clutching so fiercely that they left pale marks. “Your life is mine, your things are mine, your monkey is mine – for those are bonds of walking by my side. You will want for nothing, though. You just have to submit, bend the knee, spread your petching legs. And then, but only then, will vengeance be yours.” Ulric glared at her with his fiery, coal-black eyes, feral and precarious, as though forever perched at the brink of murder.

And then he found his lips curling back again, baring in a snarling grin, his left hand reaching down, tearing and twisting at her rags, forcing their way up her shapely thigh. He kept it up, tearing fabric, so that he could fondle her warm, sticky peach. “Mine,” he growled, her presence, the scent of her savage, cloying musk stoking his raging ardor to the blast of a furnace.

[Naama]

He was like no other man she'd ever encountered in her lifetime of excursions and tomfoolery. She could almost taste the wickedness in the air, as if it emanated from him in pulsing waves. Her lip split where he struck her across the mouth, sending a trickle of blood dripping from her chin. The blow to her cheek had ripped open the inner flesh, and she tasted a metallic tanginess that reminded her of the tender meat of human prey. Revenge, he'd proclaimed. My revenge. Sweet sweet retribution. Ulric's grin echoed on her bloody lips. Her hand gripped his wrist, nails biting hard into flesh, jaw clenched from the sharp pain of his grip on her. "Leave the monkey, take your pleasure." She replied roughly. She could always leave Squirt with Hawkins, after all. "You need only ask. Aggression appeals to me; blood is like a tantalizing aroma." These words were spoken by the Myrian, but the glint in her eyes reflected the pirate. "But I'm no man's woman, little godling." She growled. Grabbing the hilt of her hooksword from her back, she slammed it into Ulric's stomach, attempting to relinquish his hold on her. By this time her garb had been torn asunder, exposing her below the waist. But if there was any shred of modesty in the halfbreed it was quickly vanquished by the growing fervor. Then a dagger had been procured from her boot, with the tip pressing furiously hard against the crotch of his trousers. You will never find me a distressed damsel. She swiped the blade up, slicing the cloth and perhaps even a smidgen of skin, apart. Fortunately, intoxication was quickly settling into Squirt. He lurched from his position on the opposite end of the shack, but the commotion had his head spinning, and it was all he could do but collapse back on his bottom, observing for as long as he could.

[Ulric]

There was no eagerness on the savage’s part, just stark defiance in her eyes, a tautness in her hips that made him reflect bitterly on another woman who’d spurned his fervent need. Her fate had been rather messy. He wrenched back his encroaching fingers, a low rumble emanating from deep in his throat, as though he’d touched tongues of searing flames. They need to learn to love me, or else they die, he snarled, driving his knees into her thighs, forcing them apart as he spoke to him. “You don’t listen,” he growled, but by then, the sword’s hilt was smashing into his ribs, the edge of the knife sawing at his thigh. He bared his teeth at the searing agony, reluctantly drawn into a murky haze of rage. The savage was insolent, with a wicked tongue marring her pretty face, and she didn’t fear him as she should.

Now she would.

Ulric’s hands lashed out, his left grasping for the knife, the right curling into a fist that he crunched into her face. He didn’t care about the sword, for there was nothing she could do up close but smack him again, just wrenched at her wrist until she released the cruelly biting knife. He felt warmth running down his thigh, and he sneered at her. “You know nothing.” The sword was next, and he clenched his fingers around her forearm, not wrenching, but twisting as though he wanted to crush the bones. “You have nothing.”

Somewhere, in the midst of their thrashing, his leather jerkin had come unlaced. Now it waved open, revealing a tracery of scars, pale whorls of pink and purple that snaked over nearly every exposed bit of flesh. “You are nothing,” he spat, driving his fist into her defiant, mocking eyes, winding his arm around her neck.


Ulric jerked it tight, seeking to constrict her throat, and spun her over so he was mashing her face into the ground, using his bulk as an anchor. He twisted her shoulder back, trying to wrench it from the socket as the sword’s curving edge wavered near his face, and cast around for the discarded knife.

He gave a cruel grunt.

“Did you know, my sweet, sweet bird, that the traders in Ravok like to brand their property? Many have just an iron collar etched with a few symbols, others angry burn scars on their cheeks or necks. But some, they enjoy being more… circumspect.”

“Desank, fetch the ropes.”

Bending closer, so his breath was hot behind her ear, he whispered, "I want you, you daft bitch. I want your cunt, your sword arms, your lashing tongue, but I can't make you want me."

"Don't make me do this."

[Naama]

There was no smile on her lips as she watched his fury spiral out of control. Ebony eyes narrowed. My charm to enrage has not left me, I see. But it was his fist she didn't foresee in time. The force of it not only disoriented her but split the flesh further, a steady stream of blood now running thin rivulets down her split lip and the corners of her mouth. The dagger was released from her grasp, without much effort. The real focus Naama had was on the sword. If she could get the hook around his neck he would have been sliced clean, but her strength was weakened compared to Ulric's brute force and his relentless assault on her head. She spat a glob of blood at him, but the sharp, agonizing pain of his hold on her arm forced a cry from her torn mouth. Another blow to the head, and her eye was clamped shut from the impact. She could feel it pounding against her socket, but the pressure on her neck held her undivided attention. Nearly choking, her vision became splotched the second they'd hit the ground, but once Ulric began tugging viciously at her arm, a scream escaped her. The sharp pain exploded from her shoulder, and she could have sworn she heard a sickening pop. The sword clattered to the ground, now desperately far from her reach. "I yield!" Naama cried. Her breathing became ragged, stubbornly swallowing her cries despite the incessant throbbing of her head and limbs. "I yield... I'm yours, everything... Everything is yours." I know when I'm outmatched. She grimaced to herself. "Let go. Or I won't be able to use this petching sword arm." She snarled through bloodied teeth.

[Ulric]

Ulric snarled, a fragment of his enraged mind wanting to keep on going, to crush her mocking face to a pulp, but the larger part was only too eager to subdue his wavering brutality. He relented from his wrenching, taking his knee from the curve of her spine, and sat back on his straw mattress. “I don’t want any of that,” he growled. “I just wanted you to know that I can take whatever I want.” But I take nothing, he thought grimly. He reckoned that Naama could understand, if she’d been showing him that she wouldn’t be pushed around, treated like his chattel.

“You’re not bad. For a woman,” he grunted, blinking away the film of blood that obscured his eye. “You take too many risks, though.” And you don't think. There was something about her, perhaps the savage beads, or the strange tattoos, or even that inky, inscrutable stare that roused him. But he was more intrigued by the fact that she’d fought him as an equal. He’d become so used to casting a pall of fear over the winding, chimerical lanes that he’d lost something along the way. He was captivated by her fire, and suddenly the lash of her mocking tongue didn’t seem entirely bad.

However, she’d done something unspeakable. He was only grasping the sheer, terrifying magnitude of her transgression. He probed the gash above his eye, smearing crimson over his face as he stared at the floor.

“You broke my mug,” he grumbled sourly, scraping up a curving shard, fingers tracing the dregs that clung wetly to the clay. Now I’m down to one, petch her putrefying guts. And she just tried to chop of my prick, he fumed. He wanted another drink, but he couldn’t seem to find the lost tankard, so he just contented himself with lying back.

Come to think of it, he was also rather drunk, heavy beads of sweat driving rivulets down his bloody cheek, thigh burning. That could be trouble. “You’re going to replace the mug,” he scowled, “But for now, wipe yourself up, put your monkey to bed before he falls into the pit, and fetch us more booze, eh?” Ulric lowered his eyes, began to fumble with his trousers, fingers coming away wet.

Why’d she have to break my mug?

[Naama]

Naama couldn't help but roll her good eye. Oh no, of course he wanted nothing. He just wanted to make you ugly, Naama. That's what he wanted. Petch my good looks. She could already feel her bones creaking from the pressure she applied to them as she tried to lift herself off the ground. But with the discipline she was trained in as a child, the Myrian clenched her jaw and popped her arm back into place, biting back a scream. "As long as you don't touch my jewelry," She snapped, once the agony had diminished to painful throbs, "I worked hard filching these. And you ruined my skirt." Then she smirked. Grabbing a moderately large sash from Squirt's pack, she tied it loosely about her waist. "Where I come from the opposite would be said for you, sweet thing. Then again, the men there were always whipped." There was no anger in her tone nor in her eyes. It was as if the duel had never occured, even when her clamped eye began to bloom with the color of bruises and her chin and mouth were red with blood. Bastard is lucky he's ruttable or I'd have shanked his cock in a heartbeat. Naama began smoothing her mussed hair and wiping the blood from her chin only to pause and give an almost incredulous look towards Ulric. "You're such a slavedriver," She proclaimed bluntly. "That mug had no shapely curves, no supple breasts to fondle. Clearly dull, and yet you mourn it like a lost lover." Picking up the now unonscious Squirt, she laid him atop the makeshift bed she'd made for him out of the blankets and bits of cloth left in their rucksack. Then she fetched both the remaining mug and the tankard which had somehow made its way towards the front door. Filling them to the brim from the cask, she shoved the tankard into Ulric's hands and settled herself beside him on the mattress. At least the liquor will help with the pain, if not wrench it from her thoughts. "You must be a real kicker with the ladies, what with that charming attitude of yours," She said after a moment. Staring idly at the floor her lips twitched into a smile, "Or is it, you've been backstabbed too many times?"

[Ulric]

Ulric grasped at his belt, undoing the clasp with a scantly furtive, sidelong glance at Naama. Not going to peek, are you? He snorted, starting to fumble with his trousers, jerking the fabric away so he could survey the gash she’d cut in his thigh. That was close, he reflected, sighing with relief. There was a fair deal of sticky blood, but the faint pulse was halting, now reduced to a vague weeping from the redly ragged flesh. He watched as she reached for the sash, frowning.

“I already tried fondling you, and look how that turned out.” He wasn’t about to forget the danger she posed, even if they weren’t trying to beat each other’s faces into a pulp. Not that was of any great concern. Desank was crouching in a corner, taking in every flash of those dark eyes, every twitch of her fingers. There wouldn’t be a trenchant dagger scything over his unwary neck. Not as of yet, anyway. There would come a time, though. He was certain of that.

Ulric lifted his pants, wiping sticky fingers on his sagging jerkin, though he couldn’t quite smear the red away. He gave a nod, taking the tankard and draining half in a great, sucking gulp. Why can’t I stay drunk? He stared over the rim, absently watching the dark, swirling surface of its contents, grunting distractedly at her words. “Ladies?” He barked a harsh laugh. “No, they don’t like me,” he agreed. “But that’s mostly their failure to comprehend the vaguely serpentine whorls and snarls of fate, the sordid, starkly scathing profundity that mocks us from here to the highest peaks, a scant whisper upon the winds, a sigh of dust, a murmur of what might become, yet is always bleakly reduced to ashes. I sought to love, once, but now, shackled by the chains forged by my cruel divinity, there can be nothing of the man, just a fading revenant.”

He gazed at the embers, the somber contours of his face standing out, emblazoned by the fading, ruddy-orange glow. “I don’t even remember.” And when I perish, trying to redeem the paltry souls of our dying world, the scribes won’t remember me, either. He took another, desultory drink. “You’ve got a story of your own, I’d wager.”

[Naama]

The liqour stung her lacerated cheek, but Naama swallowed the pain as she swallowed the liquid, forcing herself to enjoy what she could. Booze should never be wasted. Crossing her legs, the Myrian snickered, eyeing Ulric's trousers with a devilish look. She set the mug aside, "Oh, don't hide it. Go on, air it out." There was no lingering threat looming over her head. Despite the fact that she was technically beaten in their little clash of limb and blade, Naama was confident she could at least make it out the door in one piece should Ulric decide his hospitality had reached its limit. She hadn't expected his answer to be so convoluted, however, yet oddly intriguing. Her one good eye observed the shadows that flickered across his face; a face marred by the calamity of life and the poisons it promises. She sighed, leaning back against the mattress with arms folded beneath her head. "The bane of every man," Naama replied, staring almost dejectedly at the ceiling, "So you're a complicated man. It must come with the territory, after all, little godling." "And that's why you take your chains and let them become your whips," She continued, "The bonds that hold the world." She gave him a wry smile, "My story is just as dismal as your little monologue, sweet Ulric." She sat up, scooted closer and stretched a copper hand out to open his jerkin further, inspecting the scars and blemishes that marked his skin like some twisted painting. "In my homeland these would been seen as trophies," She remarked, "But I rarely ever consider myself a Myrian these days. Only the shadow of one. My eyes and these pores on my hands I inherited from my Chaktawe father. I'm a lover of the sea and Zulrav, thundering pecs and all. And I enjoy a good fight or two." These old memories I will forever lock away. "The charming version of my story, as told by a wandering damsel." She discarded her top and jewelry on the floor beside the mattress and rummaged through the rucksack once more to procure the waterskin they'd left in there. Blood had caked itself across her neck and chest which the halfbreed promptly began cleaning after a quick splash from her skin. "You hadn't seen these, yet. Might as well drink your fill." Wiping the blood from her hands, Naama glanced sidelong about the room, "This charming, invisible gorilla of yours.... Is it some, divine ghost? I'm honestly curious. It intrigues me, like a sweet little puppy."