The In-Between [Laszlo]

[Abalia]

Fall 89, 511 AV It was raining in Alvadas. Heavy droplets that fell in what seemed like slow motion, trickling through the air as if they had some secret foothold, some invisible way to stall and delay their inevitable demise on the pavement below. The buildings were long since drenched, the water on the streets running up the incline instead of down it. Torchlight danced along these pools, creating shadow images where it fell. The images came to life and created a world all their own, a reflection of the world they lived in, only quite alive and vibrant and not at all dependent upon the denizens of Alvadas for inspiration. In this strangest of storms Abalia picked her way through the city. It was the dead of night, and she should have been sleeping. Once Marius' breathing had fallen into a predictable pattern of rest, however, she had to get out. To escape. Worry was clawing at her, drowning her. Roxanne was still gone. Abalia had lived long enough to know what that meant, but her heart was unwilling to accept it. Tragedy surrounded them and the world was a cruel place, but that didn't mean she could lose her best friend to it. She had to hold on to hope, because to let go of it would be to give up on Roxxie. To give up on the countless hours of companionship and trust, to give up on the only love that had remained a stable thing in her life. She couldn't give up. Her stroll was morose and meandering. She had covered every inch of Alvadas, more than once. She had looked everywhere. There was no real purpose in this journey, except to purge a bit of the bleeding ache in her own heart. She paid little attention to the world inside the puddles, even when it called her name. She ignored the more vocal of the statues that filled the city, the many distractions that sought to pull her away from her own thoughts. Alvadas was her playmate, but she was in no mood to play. Blind footfall led her through winding, shifting streets without thought. It didn't matter where she ended up, because she didn't have a goal. It was strange, given the level of her distraction, that she noticed him at all. She had walked past dozens of other Alvada, scurrying along in the rain, trying to find reprieve. Why she should look up at the precise moment when an errant gust of wind would blow back a dark hood, revealing a shock of familiar silver hair and fine features she recognized, would forever puzzle her. Alvadas had a life of it's own, though, and far stranger things had happened. Abalia recognized Laszlo where he stood at the intersection of a street. Streets, rather. It seemed as if the city was toying with him, as no less than eight possible paths existed before him. In the blink of an eye the entire world seemed to shift, to realign, to change, so that the options he was presented with a breath before were entirely different now. He seemed flustered by it, understandably so, with those impossibly red lips pursed in agitation. A hint of a smile tugged at Abalia's lips. She was hardly as amiable as his wine had made her those nights before, but he was a distraction. A slightly welcome one. With the weight of sorrow making her feet heavy, Abalia dragged against invisible chains. In an attempt to tease, to joke, to jest - as she had done with Roxanne a million times before, and with Dolvich too, Abalia utilized her strange communion with the city to slink along in shadows which embraced her. It wasn't until her small hands came up to grip at the cloaked flesh just above his hips that he'd realize her presence at all. Abalia hadn't taken the time to imagine just what might happen if she surprised a veritable stranger on the streets in the middle of the night. If she had, she wouldn't have imagined this. Laszlo turned so quickly that she had no time at all to recoil or defend. The back of his hand contacted the boning of her cheek with a resounding crack that sent a shot of pain through her skull. She bit her groan off quickly, using her size to her advantage as she ducked low to avoid the next blow. Small hands came up in her defense, and the next thirty seconds were a blur of reckless scrabbling. She was small, and slick, and the city seemed to be on her side - raising pavement as to trip him, reaching out with shadow to embrace her. It lasted only a few seconds, really, before he managed to capture her wriggling form and pin her to the soaked wall behind her. The harsh stone became smoother, less biting, as Alvadas accommodated her. Her chest heaving from the exertion, a release of energy that had been cathartic, somehow taking with it some of her burning misery, Abalia lifted small hands to curl about his wrist where he pinned her. Her lower lip was trickling blood, and an ugly bruise was quickly forming on the height of her cheekbone. Despite it all, she smiled almost salaciously up at him, those big brown eyes of hers devoid of any real resentment or anger. She seemed more amused than hurt, no matter her visible wounds. "You know how to greet a girl, Laszlo. I'm happy to see you too."

[Laszlo]

A wooden mug sailed through the air. It whistled softly, unnaturally airborne, as it shot through the heavy, dark atmosphere of the Sun and Stars Tavern. Several heads rapidly turned to watch the object collide with the far wall, immediately collapsing into itself and creating a small explosion of pine. Jagged fragments and a spray of splinters showered the nearby area, where the small pool of ale that had been inside remained dark and wet against the wooden siding. One of the larger chunks of wood caught itself on the gray, woolen fabric of a sleeve, which belonged to a sleeping lump named Ned. He didn't notice it, and neither did anyone else. The necks that had craned to watch the mug shatter now turned toward the opposite side of the tavern to find its source: a panting, growling Symenestra behind the bar. His palms were flat on the bar top as the tips of his black claws dug into the wood, all his weight pressed onto his hands. Severely narrowed amethysts were tightly focused on the floor, staring at some unseen thought, while his labored breath passed through his clenched teeth. The curtain of his dark silver hair, usually tucked so carefully behind his ears, now fell to frame his face in a slightly disheveled tangle: mussed from the fingers that has recently pulled at it. A low chuckle escaped someone sitting in the thin tavern crowd. Laszlo's eyes twitched upward like a cat's, eyeshine flickering brightly. The laugh silenced itself. Laszlo wasn't even sure why he was angry. Every night, every night, Laszlo was here pouring drinks, mopping up spills, reciting prices, and reiterating the place's limited menu. For a full month now, he had run this small business for the most part on his own. Seven did help, yes… a lot more than Laszlo was presently willing to give him credit for. Victor made an appearance some nights, though whether anything he did counted as work was debatable. The both of them however had other jobs, reasons to be busy with other things, leaving Laszlo to take care of serving their happy guests for the majority of the time. It was his fault, for waiting so long. Seven and Victor had already made their own living arrangements. Laszlo had been so elated when he'd finally got those two to agree to pay for the wretched place with him—even covering the majority of the costs! Now this was his reward. Endless labor. Oh, dear Laszlo, so desperate to have an identity, a reason. This was the best you could do? There was really very little reason to be so upset. Rationally, he knew he didn't really mind the work, but right now he felt trapped, frustrated, hopeless. He knew that Fall was nearly over, and that meant that Laszlo's Symenestra side was prone to its charming seasonal aggression. As hard as he tried, however, he couldn't help it. Being rational was not one of his virtues tonight. He couldn't be here anymore. Laszlo had already destroyed a mug. He was almost certain that the next victim of his wrath would be breathing. "Seven!" Laszlo spat, pulling the damp towel off his shoulder and hurling it at the bar. Taking long, smooth strides, he briskly began making his way toward the door. "Take over," he snarled in Symenos, a language he found himself reverting to whenever he was annoyed. To know that only one person could make out was he was saying somehow kept his anger private, even if everyone could see it. "I need some air." With a furious swipe of his clawed hand, Laszlo snatched his cloak from the coat rack. It toppled over immediately, striking the ground just as the door slammed shut. And just his luck. It was raining. Sort of. Ionu was in a mood again. The rain fell so slowly that Laszlo found himself walking into it, the raindrops meeting the Symenestra's tall, lanky form before they could find the ground. The small globules of water broke as his woolen cloak brushed into them. The raised hood did little to keep the rain out of his face, for this reason, which felt ice cold against his skin in the crisp autumn air. He shivered, though the cool, late evening breeze did seem to soothe some of his irritation. The torchlight was acting strange, and playing tricks with Laszlo's usually keen eyes. His violets were meant for piercing shadows, but the shadows instead seemed to move, defying the light and playing a silent game of rebellion. Laszlo blinked his eyes hard, having to force his focus away from the torches and onto the road. The night wore on as Laszlo's boot crunched against wet gravel. He thought he'd heard a bell chime at some point, but that must have been nearly thirty minutes ago. At least an hour gone, and his walk had done little soothe him. Now he was lost, as a matter of petching course, and he hadn't seen the Sun and Stars Tavern since he'd stepped out of it. Just great. Everything was great. Violence, insanity, murder, lies, and now a lost tavern. Coming to Alvadas had been one enormous mistake. Why did he ever— A hand grabbed at his arm. Laszlo reacted immediately, adrenaline searching through his lean body and driving him to act on instinct. Before he could even think, he was staring down a familiar face, wet with rain and twisted into a difficult smile. The back of his hand stung, and his hands were clenching thin, feeble arms tightly enough to feel his own pulse in his fingers. Laszlo's curled lip relaxed as the scowl left his face and his violet eyes softened in recognition. "Abalia?" He heard the growl in his voice and cleared his throat. Laszlo let go of the woman, though he still felt hot adrenaline coursing through his veins, high on his own surprise. His heart hadn't stopped beating against his chest. Shock slowly melted into fierce resentment, but he contained that when he saw the bright red color staining the girl's lip. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked unforgivingly, taking up the girl's jaw in one clawed hand. The tips of his nails grazed her skin as he held her still, using the thumb on his other hand to wipe the drop of blood from her face. As he retracted both hands and leaned back, he smeared the red between his fingers. When he spoke again, there was a note of chagrin in his voice, which he tried to disguise as annoyance. "Don't ever sneak up on me like that. Is that how you get everyone's attention on the street?"

[Abalia]

It was visible on his face. In his eyes, in the set of his jaw, in the press of his fingers, even. Abalia wasn't certain what it was, but there was a clear agitation written all over the barkeep who had seemed relatively mellow on the other occasion in which she had interacted with him. In fact, he was almost seething, an energy rolling off of him that was as palpable as the rain. Abalia did not struggle as his clawed hand came up to capture her pretty face, nor did she attempt to wrestle out her freedom as he held her still. The cut on her lip stung when he touched it, feminine features flinching ever so slightly. And then he had stepped back, giving her the first deep breath of cool air she felt as if she had taken since she had approached him. Abalia stared at him with what was intended to be a baleful expression. For the most part, the set of her jaw and the scowl to her brow, she was successful. But her eyes, well. Her eyes wouldn't lie. Abalia appraised him as they stood in that awkward rain, unnatural shadows dancing at their feet from nearby torchlight. The length of his hair, the familiarity of his boning, his scowl. The sensation of those claws against her skin would not be shaken, a secret coil of pleasure tightening at her very core. Was it terrible that she wanted him to step forward again? So very wrong that his dark expression only made her want all the more to stretch onto tiptoe, to bury her fingers in his hair, and to draw him downwards? Abalia could imagine how, in this mood, his lips would rape hers. How bruising it would be, the kiss that he might take. Was it traitorous, how warm she suddenly was, despite the cool circumstances of the night? The overwhelming truth of Roxanne's loss was stifled in the face of this new, brooding figure. Was she terrible for it? Roxxie would not approve, recalling the close case with Dolvich. Dolvich, whom Abby should bring to mind, should use as the impetus she needed to push him away. But she didn't want to. Like a stubborn child playing with fire, she shrugged one slender shoulder and feigned an unaffected air. Only her eyes, those churning pools of brown, said otherwise. "I'm taking a petching walk, and wrestling with the likes of you, it looks like. And no, not everyone." She gave no explanation as to why he had been one of the few, nor did she actually have one. When those eyes, blissfully so different from Dolvich's own, diverted to glower at the blood on his fingers, when it seemed as if he would step away, Abalia acted without thought. She stepped forward to curl her fingers into the soft, wet fabric of his shirt. She could feel the press of muscle and bone beneath, the structure of the man beneath the cloth. In a move sudden enough to surprise him, again, she whirled about so that a shove and the weight of her frame against him could reverse their positions. Now it was his back against the hard stone of the building, with her slight figure 'trapping' him there. She was warmer than he, tucked into the sodden mess Alvadas had made of his front. The small fingers curled in his clothing were persistent, refusing to budge as she peered up at him. "You messed up m'face, Laz. You're not going to fix it?" It was clear that his mood, his frame of mind was not one to be challenged. This wasn't exactly the time for games. Which was precisely why Abalia couldn't help herself, prodding at the fury that welled so close to the surface in the beautiful thing she curled her body into. She could never explain it to Roxxie, to anyone, but she found this unexpected viciousness just as enthralling as any kind gentleness ever could have been. There was something so raw and real about Laszlo in that moment. He'd never been more appealing. She danced a fine line.

[Laszlo]

Laszlo coughed as the cold hard wall slammed into his back, forcing a burst of air from his lungs. A new rush of anger quickly followed as he bore down at the dark haired girl, seething violet honing in on her vulnerable brown eyes. His lip drew back again, baring a pair of lengthened fangs set against his barrier of shining teeth. His breath left in the form of a snarl, his resentment renewed as a fresh wave of annoyed warmth sent his nerves tingling. Both hands closed into fists. The hell was she playing at? "Do you have death wish?!" he hissed at her, trying very hard to keep himself from ripping her tiny, ineffectual hands off of his wet shirt. Her knuckles pressed into his chest every time he took a breath, and every time the feeling of being held this way stole another piece of his patience. "You do know what I am, don't you? What is your petching obsession?" This charade again, pretending to be a Symenestra. It wasn't a game, this time. Laszlo had gotten so tired of correcting everyone, of having to explain what an Ethaefal was. He certainly didn't have the patience for it now. The year he'd spent in Kalinor, Laszlo decided, was enough for him to adequately play the part which the night had bade him to. An unidentifiable uncertainty swam in the burnt sepia hue of her wide eyes, which she couldn't quite conceal behind that mask of maddening arrogance. She wanted something from him, that was plain to see. But what? Did she know about Roxanne? If so, then why go after Laszlo? Why not Seven, or Victor? No, it must have been something else. He hoped it was. Cold amethyst pools parted from the scrutiny of her eyes, glancing over the pink discoloration on her cheek. Laszlo had hit her. He numbly felt the guilt lance at his façade of simmering anger, but it couldn't quite pierce all the way through. It was more difficult to feel pity for her than it was to grow more angry at himself for a sorry lack of self-control. Abalia had said something peculiar, leading Laszlo to wonder if she knew he was actually a fallen of Syna. Without attempting to remove her hands from his shirt, Laszlo lifted his pale hand to the pink glow of Abalia's face. He brushed the pad of his thumb first over her reddened cheek. Her flesh turned from hot pink to a dull grey: the sign of a healing bruise. Then, he touched the backs of his fingers to the cut on the girl's lip, which all but vanished into a thin, rosy line. It wasn't exactly fixed, but it was the best the Ethaefal could do for now. "I didn't mean to hit you," Laszlo grumbled with measured placidity, his voice kept at a practiced, level tone. "But right now is not a good time to try my patience. I'm not in control of myself, and you will get hurt if you keep this up."

[Abalia]

Abalia knew, as his fingers brushed so gently across her aching cheek, that she'd gone too far. Not because he'd hurt her. Not because she was afraid. But because that touch on her face made her feel something she hadn't in a long while. It was a farce of an emotion; she didn't know him well enough to really care, to really feel such desperate attachment. But he was enough like him to stir familiar emotions that had simmered long before. Abalia was not afraid of playing at his strings, of invoking his wrath. Half of her longed for that, for the unpredictable attention that would follow. But the small, fragile part that she kept so thoroughly locked away shuddered at that touch. And her lip, whole again. She released his shirt with one hand and lifted it to brush her own wound experimentally. As if time had hurried forward, her wounds mending so much more quickly than they ought. It was almost kind. She had been goading him, she'd hardly expected something like this. But in a place like Alvadas, his energy spent (however minute) to patch her up was important. It was invasive, inasmuch as people generally kept to their own lives in the city of Illusions. No one had ever done something like that for her. The bravado faltered, if only for a second. There was the briefest moment where her expression softened and she was entirely honest, exposed, vulnerable. She ducked her head, fingers curling all the more tightly at her hold. When she glanced back up again, that moment had passed. There was almost a note of challenge in the caramel of her eyes, the lip he'd half repaired joining it's partner for a slow smile. Abalia arched up onto tip toe, standing closer still. "Laszlo," she mused in a misty breath. The air was chilly, but she felt only heat. "You won't hurt me." As a human, Abalia should have had the sense to flee. To turn tail and run would have been her most sensible recourse. Instead, one feminine hand released it's death grip so that she could snake it upwards, to the place where skin and fabric met. It seemed important, somehow, to touch him. However benignly, soft fingertips splaying with no apparent aim except to feel. They trailed higher still, and around, until they could curl almost lazily in the hair at the nape of his neck. As if they had a right to be there. "Maybe a bruise or a scrape," she continued in a voice that was far too confident, too certain. "But you won't really hurt me." Abalia released his shirt with her other hand, her grip on him relinquished. It was the leaning of her slight frame, then, that kept her so close. She reached down to grip his hand and she brought it up to rest above her breast, just over her heart. Ebon claw unwittingly pressed into bare skin, and Abalia's brows lifted in something akin to amusement, and not quite. Certainty. "You already would have."

[Laszlo]

Abalia's warmth leeched into the cold flesh of Laszlo's long, white fingers. The side of his face twitched as for the second time, the girl played with a lock of his hair, and still stood far too close for comfort. Was she mad? She must have been, if she had grown up in this bedlam of disorder and dancing shadows. It seemed a theme lately; Seven, Ulric, Victor, and now her. Why was he so continuously surprised by the antics played upon him by this wretched city? He had loved the games, at first, but now the city seemed bent on stealing every bit of Laszlo's sanity, grain by grain. What made this girl so unafraid of him? So drawn to him? She had a pretty face, he couldn't deny that. Her curves were young and healthy, and he couldn't deny a mutual physical attraction (and maybe even a certain fascination with her unbelievable gall). But, she was human. Mortal, simple, and stupid. She didn't know what she was doing. This felt like Syliras all over again. Laszlo wouldn't make the same mistake. "What makes you trust me?" The stern question was telling of Laszlo's ebbing patience. He could feel Abalia's heart thudding gently into the hollow of his palm. Breaking away from that, he began sliding his hand upward from her chest. A sharp nail traced across her skin, leaving a thin white line that turned pink seconds later. With a sudden jerk, his hand found the rigid front of her throat, and his spidery fingers wrapped themselves around her slender little neck. He squeezed, not hard enough to cause her much pain, but enough to satisfy himself. With his free hand, he tore her wrist away from his collar, holding it away from him. "You speak as if you know me, but you couldn't. You're only a human. You don't know the slightest thing about me, or what I'm capable of. You don't know my name, you don't know my desires, you don't even know what I am." Keeping a hold on both her neck and her wrist, Laszlo began forcing her backward, moving away from the building and walking her toward the middle of the street. "I am so tired of being played by strangers, of putting up with everyone else's madness. What about me? Are my wants so unimportant? It seems every day, I have to put up with murder and illusions and blood and greed. And I do it, because what other choice do I have than this sorry existence? And now you dare presume to know me?" Stupid, stupid girl. Whatever disillusion had ensnared her mind, put such soft longing in those deep, brown eyes was a sorry misfortune. The Alvads all had varying preconceptions of the Symenestra, and clearly this girl's education was lacking unless it was her desire to give her life in service to the spidery cavern-dwellers. This face didn't belong to Laszlo, not really. She'd had one conversation with the man, and even then he'd told her next to nothing about himself. Whatever view she had of him was skewed. She couldn't know who Laszlo was. Not even he could know that. Although… now he was beginning to have some idea of the person he was turning out to be. All the games, all the deception. Giving Victor a false name, briefly adopting Viratas as his surrogate god, trying to pass as a resident of Kalinor, bartering with the allure of hypnosis to trick his friends out of their money, and to nudge their minds to make him do as he wished, covering up for a murder he didn’t commit. "Do you want to know, azo?" Laszlo hissed again, drawing he girl's face close to his. He leaned over her, just inches away, enough for his ale-soaked breath to waft gently against her as he spoke. Unconsciously he squeezed her neck, this time perhaps a little more tightly than he should. "I'm not what you think I am. I don't even know what exactly it is you see when you look at me, but I can tell you what you should be seeing. I think I'm starting to realize it, why I chose this petching city, what I really am." Laszlo let go of Abalia altogether as he shoved the girl forward, hard enough to throw her off balance. As she tumbled onto the wet gravel road, he unsympathetically slid both hands into his pockets, both pupils glinting in the low light. "I'm a liar," he finished, slowly turning around. Muttering a Symenos curse under his breath, he began walking into the suspended rain again, briefly dispatching a hand to flip up his cloak's hood.

[Abalia]

The more his anger seemed to escalate, the more alive he felt against her. Even if this was a dangerous, foolish game, he was no longer simply a strange man skulking about in a hood. His energies were not half invested here, reserved. Even if it was only his fury, she was receiving the fullness of his attention, the weight of his emotion. Abalia reveled in it, even when those fingers tightened painfully about her throat. And then, with the flavor of his alcohol infused breath on her own lips, she found herself on her ass in a puddle in the middle of the street. He had his say, much like a child in the middle of a tantrum, and then he turned his back to her. With all intentions of walking away, it would seem. Abalia couldn't move for a moment, only stare after him. And then she laughed. The sound was way too bright and musical for the night they were in. It was wildly juxtaposed to the intensity of the moment they had just shared. With frustration rolling off of him in waves, Abalia couldn't stifle the amusement that flowed out of her. She found her way to her feet again, dusting her palms against one another. She didn't bother trying to shake the water from the fabric of her clothes. She was soaked, thanks to him. She did, however, move to catch up to him. A light jog and she had insinuated herself into his path again, apparently possessing some sort of death wish or sincerely unconvinced about what danger he might pose to her. "Do you want to know what I think, Symenestra?" Abalia began. Her chin was lifted in a noble little challenge, and while the laughter had died on her lips, her eyes were still too bright as they lifted to bore into his. When he attempted to step around her, she mirrored the action, walking backwards as she spoke. "I think you don't know shit about you. I think you hide away in that little tavern, in this cloak," she said, with a tug on said article of clothing, "and take yourself way too petching seriously. I already told you that I can't trust you. I'm not after sweet nothings on my pillow at night." In truth, Abalia had no idea what she was after. She wasn't really investing a lot of thought into this encounter, these encounters. Allowing the seat of her emotion to be the judge, she was behaving impulsively, recklessly. "Oh, I'm so ordinary, so human. So stupid," Abalia said, waving her arms expressively. She made a face at that, and when he grasped her arms to move her aside, his dark claws bit at her skin. She tried to ignore it, to deplore it, as she wriggled her arms free. "But you don't know a thing about me either, Laszlo. Nothing. You talk about Alvadas and all the shit you've had to deal with here, but what are you doing about it? And what about your desires, your wants? How the hell are they supposed to matter when you can't even seem to figure them out?"" Abalia paused in her backwards scuttle and when, calling her bluff, he stepped into her she lifted her small hands to his chest. There was a breath of that intimate closeness between them. She wished he'd lift that clawed hand and curl it in her hair, crush her closer, chase away her pain with his own. She wanted to hurt him, too. To rip at that beautiful hair and scratch at ashen skin. To empty herself of the bitterness Dolvich had left behind. She wanted so much from Laszlo, none of which she would receive. Instead she gave a firm shove with all of her strength, causing him to take a step or two back. "So just go back to your dank little tavern, you broody bastard. Go wash those mugs of yours and wait to see what kind of mess Alvadas will drop on you next. Because you're right. I don't know everything about you. One thing I do know," she said, a finger in his chest, "is that the madness of the last five minutes is the most real you've been since I've met you." Abalia rocked back on her heels then, as the rain changed it's trajectory and began to flow upwards instead, the condensation that had spilled onto the ground beginning a journey back up towards the clouds. "Good luck finding your way," she said, with more than a bit of mocking to her tone. The hand that had been extended in accusation only a moment before lifted to pat his chest, lightly. The familiarity of a lover. She had the gall to smile at him, before inclining her head as she stepped aside to allow him to pass.

[Laszlo]

For a moment, there was silence between the two shaded figures in the vacant Alvadas street. All around them, the rain continued its unhurried cascade, thousands of individual droplets glistening brightly in the pale moonlight. They met the ground in staggering unison with an unfamiliar hiss, almost a buzz, not usually the sort of sound one would expect to hear from rainfall. Abalia had stepped aside, but Laszlo wasn't moving. The tall, lean Symenestra stood there under his cloak like a monolith, the damp, heavy wool that hung from his shoulders smoothing over any features that might define his shape. Laszlo's pupils were almost luminescent under the shadow of his hood, where the hints of other shadows writhed to Ionu's whimsy. His grayish violet eyes were burning with exasperation as they leered at the slight form of the diminutive human girl. A lot of what she said had left him seething. Taking himself too seriously, not knowing the slightest thing about himself, hiding in his cloak and his tavern, being real. She still thought he was a Symenestra. She was still acting reckless, playing at this childish contest with a Widow, her eyes alive with unnamed excitement. This was a game to her, and that was maddening. Laszlo's nostrils flared as he glared at her, breathing coarsely as he kept his mouth closed and his teeth firmly clenched. Yet, a lot of what she had said had been spot on. That fact alone stilled his aching tongue, kept him from spewing more bitter words at her, for fear that she'd deflect that just as easily. Laszlo was genuinely stunned. For an impetuous, stupid child, she had been alarmingly intuitive. Were he in a better state of mind, he might have recognized that with a little more finesse. "Go away," Laszlo sighed finally, looking downward releasing his frustrations in a heaving sigh. A slender hand slipped under his hood and dug pale fingers into his silvery tresses, pulling at locks of his hair until the pain of it overruled some of his vexation. "You don't know what you're talking about." As he finished his sentence, he inhaled, but the breath was shaky. He could hurt her. Take her by the arm again and throw her back to the ground, dirtying even more of her clothing. She was so much smaller than he was; it would be easy, but now it irritated him just to look at her. If he reached for her and she twisted away, he might actually hurt her out of frustration beyond a simple cut or bruise. And look at her now: already a mess, already bruised. Raelynn had met a fate like this. "Honestly, are you following me? Do you think I had something to do with your missing Kelvic?" If Abalia knew anything about Symenestra, that wouldn't be too far-fetched a suspicion. A beautiful young girl goes missing, and a Symenestra gets blamed. Laszlo could make the connection. Abalia might have been using herself as bait, but… that just didn't feel right. "I wish I could do something to help you, I really do, but I don't know where your raccoon went, and pestering me is not going to bring her back." Laszlo took another few steps forward, his boots crunching in the wet gravel, with the intention of moving on past her. Just as he was about to pass her, he stopped again with another sigh. Beneath his cloak, his clawed hand formed into a fist and black, sharpened nails dug at his palm. His violet eyes remained dutifully forward as he focused one not-so-interesting piece of the road in front of him. "You're right about me. Does that satisfy you? Is that what you want?" He finished the rest of his exhale noisily though his nostrils, then drew another breath. "But I'm not a Symenestra. I'm an Ethaefal, understand? I expect you don't. It doesn't matter." The hood of his cloak inched back as Laszlo turned his head to look down at her. His eyes passed over the dark stain on her cheek. His features softened. "I don't want to hurt you anymore than I have, so please, go away. If you want so desperately to speak with me, then come by my tavern in the daylight hours and I might not be so inclined to…" Snap her little neck. "Just… go. I'm half-drunk and severely irritated. If you truly know what a Symenestra is, you'll understand. I'm not myself tonight." He looked away briefly, chasing a sudden thought, then returned his eyes to Abalia. "Though, answer one thing. Why do you look at me like that, like I have the answer to your every question?" It was maddening. The crook of his palm could still remember the curve of her neck, the pressure of resistance as he squeezed. She was right there. It wouldn't be hard to grab her again. To hold her still as… "It's annoying."

[Abalia]

In the playful battle-mode she had adopted, it would have taken a lot to rattle Abalia. People did not speak clearly out of anger, she knew this intuitively. She expected insults and a full gamut of verbal attack, since the physical one did not seem imminent. What she hadn't expected, however, was the invocation of Roxanne's name. For some reason she simply did not link Laszlo, in his strange beauty, with her lost friend. For all that she seemed to be more prominent in his mind, though, well... it gave her pause. A speculative glance darted quickly up to the lines of his face, while he yet stared away. If there was suspicion in her heart, it was planted by his own tongue. He was hardly finished speaking, barreling on with all the frustration in the world. She resisted the urge to snort at his continued perception of her as ignorant and mindless, and withheld her comments on the matter. If he wanted to think of her as a foolish child then she would let him. It only meant that the cleverness she did possess, as well as the knowledge, would someday surprise him. That could only be an advantage. When those violet eyes turned upon her again, a small measure of her chagrin faded. So lovely. He was questioning her, then, those eyes burning into her as he demanded a response without so much as a move towards her. "Oh, Laz," she sighed faintly, sweetly. For all that she had pushed him, challenged him, stood up to him, she had softened again. A pretty girl with a pretty smile. She reached for his hand, coaxing those nails away from his palm so she could lace her own warm digits into his. She took a step closer, though it no longer held the challenge and laughable threat of her posturing moments prior. She was almost coquettish, with the tip of her head and the sweep of dark lashes as she peeked up at him. It was only the raw edge to every motion, the sincerity that seemed to emanate off of her that kept it from seeming so outright. "Is it so hard to imagine that you might?" Abalia blinked those wide eyes of hers up at him, trying to read his brooding expression. A soft sigh followed, and then she fixed him with a small smile. "Peace between us, Laszlo. I didn't mean to startle you, and you were just too fun to walk away from. I admitted to not trusting you, but I've already told you that I would like to like you. You will not feel so agitated forever. It always passes, and then... then we could play pretend, again. Pretend whatever you like."

[Laszlo]

"Is it so hard to imagine that you might?" Laszlo's eyes softened helplessly. What was he supposed to do with an answer like that? She reminded him of Ambrose—cocksure and disarmingly forthcoming. The way she forcibly slipped her hand into his only solidified the association. The Ethaefal glanced unsurely at the union between his pale flesh and her flush color, troubled that he immediately compared the contrast to the warm and cool radiance of Syna and Leth. His violet pools slowly arced back up to her face. Suddenly the curves of her cheekbones were a little more perfect. The slope of her narrow jaw was a little more elegant. Laszlo's heated nerves began converting his seething ire into something a little warmer. His stubborn heart continued its hurried pace, but he could feel his bloodflow shifting toward places it had no business considering the context. Abalia's friend had been killed in cold blood in Laszlo's tavern. He should absolutely not be consorting with her in any form, but here he was, holding her hand and admiring her face. "Syna strike me blind," he cursed in irritation, uttering a hostile sigh through his clenched teeth. Pretend, she had said, such a sweet promise. What a wild young heart she possessed, thirsty for games and risk. Laszlo remembered his glimpse of Roxanne before she had become a bloody heap in Victor and Seven's bedroom. He had clung to the image, as a tribute to the woman's character which before he thought no one would care enough to mourn. She had been a devilishly handsome creature, with a fluttering laugh that could make a man stagger. What a dangerous pair they must have been. With his hand ensnared in hers, Laszlo drew Abalia another step closer, until she could feel the warmth from his body permeating through the chilled, wet air. He hooked the side of his index finger under the point of her chin, his warmed eyes regarding the discoloration of her cheek, and the closed tear on her bottom lip. What a foolish young girl, entering this dangerous dance with a Symenestra. If Laszlo weren't incidentally a lie, a nightshroud worn by Syna's fallen, she might have been inviting her death. She was easy prey. "You're a strange girl." Moving his hand around to the nape of her neck, Laszlo held Abalia still just long enough to lean down and plant a gentle kiss on her forehead. He inwardly cursed Lhex for entwining their fates this way. He would have liked to know Abalia without the knowledge of Roxanne's death weighing him down. "Circumstances are cruel. You met me in a moment of weakness." Laszlo took a step backward, tugging his hand out of the grip of hers. "Now go away. If I look at you for another moment longer, the ale might win over my better judgment and you might win a few new bruises." He shuddered at his own ambiguity, though whether it was in annoyance or something else, he couldn't be certain. Frustration continued to simmer at his core, wearing at his wits. He needed the isolation of an aimless walk more than anything now. He just wanted to calm down. "Let me find my tavern again in peace."