The Temple: Of All Things Mystical (Victor Lark)

[Victor Lark]

His eyes narrowed as he let her speak, both fascinated and incredulous. Stories of rituals and sacrifices hardly escaped Victor’s impressionable ears throughout his Ravokian childhood; a part of him was thrilled at the prospect of blood, and of seeing which pieces of the stories were true. But another part of him, which was rising respectably beneath the weight of his curiosities, begged for an explanation before the fool indulged in such a peculiar request. Stalling, he plucked his dagger from his belt and held its hilt lightly in one hand, carefully balancing its sharp point on the end of his opposite forefinger.

Without once turning back to look at her eyes, which pained him as much as it excited his impression of her infatuation, he regarded the iron blade in the blue moonlight. It had only ever seen the blood of animals (and Victor counted Kelvics in that category) and his scrutinizing expression suggested that he was not sure whether it was suitable for any ceremony.

He traced the blade’s point delicately, almost pensively, down his finger and over his palm. The gesture hinted acquiescence, but it was not a promise. “Do you think Leth would take you back if you could find a way to climb up the drain? Maybe if you learn some discipline! Or maybe you like losing control,” came his acerbic chatter, avoiding the topic with his words as he insisted on it with his actions.

Suddenly his height dipped to take her hand and the iron point followed the same precarious path over her pale palm. Still he tried not to meet her gaze, but he could not resist half a second’s glance before he stole back at her fingers. “What would my blood do for your little performance, Runas?” He asked. He was silent for a few moments, and when he finally looked into her eyes, he lifted the flat side of the dagger to press on her soft cheek. He threatened its edge at the same time as he seemed to protect her from it. “Why should your reimancy mean my injury?”

[Runas]

Runas watched Victor, although she felt... melancholy. She wanted him to meet her eyes. Grey to silver. He had wonderful eyes, and she wondered what they'd look like overflowing with moisture. What would Victor's eyes say if he was crying? Runas' own eyes narrowed ever so slightly at the thought, and she restrained her smile. She liked Victor. She knew that. Liked him and resented him. She had to, in order to want to hurt someone through him.

Her eyes descended to watch the blade. It was lovely. It looked sharp. It would suit her purposes nicely, and if she felt like keeping it then she would, once she was done here. Maybe she'd return it one day. Most likely not. She hadn't taken anything from anyone in such a long time. A little smirk quirked the corner of her lips as she watched the blade's progress down his thumb and palm. Almost as though the soft movement hypnotized and ensnared her. As he spoke, the spell was broken however, and she felt disoriented for a moment before she offered him the faintest of smiles.

"I have given up on returning to my father, Victor. If I go back, if he accepts me again, it will be at his leisure." Silver eyes glowed earnestly as they tried to meet grey ones. Despite the nature of the colour itself, the grew irises of Victor's eyes weren't flat. But they didn't express enough in her opinion. Runas wanted to see tears.

The sudden cool press of the blade to her hand threatened to draw a gasp passed her pale lips. The touch was not entirely alien, but at this point it was unexpected. Her lips parted anyway, and she was too transfixed on the blade to note his eyes flash up to hers. "Control is a gift, not a possession. Whether I lose it is not up to me." But, even so, control was something she desired. She wanted it, greatly. Suddenly, she put on a smirk and dressed her voice in lilt. "There is water in your blood. I've seen a reimancer use it. I wish to show you art." Suddenly, she laughed. "Are you afraid?" She challenged softly.

The touch of the blade to her cheek made her shiver. Runas tried to not move too drastically, but she lifted a hand to drape her fingers along his cheek, mimicking the blade on her own. Soft flesh compromised by cool metal did not bother her unless he meant to stick the blade in her breast and kill her. Vanity was not hers to control. She managed another smile. "I won't hurt you Victor. Even if it does pain you, understand that the pain must happen for beauty to be created." Her words held lies, but she felt nothing in the deception. She tried to mask them, however, under soft reassurances. Her eyes met with his to let him know she was serious about not meaning to hurt him.

[Victor Lark]

Art. Beauty. What could she possibly mean? The question caught in his throat and expanded into indignation at the dare inside of the explanation. He removed the dagger from her face with a sudden flourish, trying to make her flinch. With that movement, his arm pushed away her touch and crossed over his chest. Where it hung between them, it became a temporary barrier between their proximity. He did not see her promise of protection and sympathy, too subtle was it in the careful bend of her brow. But she had hit a nerve when she spoke of fear; poor Victor still fell head first into her trap.

“I am not afraid!” He insisted. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing a thick patch of gauze on one wrist where a Symenestra’s fangs had had their way with his flesh only two nights previous. Then with a single deft sweep, he painted a line of red between the folds in his palm. The wince that raked his face was unavoidable, but he managed to subdue it before he looked up at her. He told himself that he was appealing to the chaos which her words told him she craved, blind to any hint at her true desire.

As soon as he met her gaze and identified her reaction, his eyes bent downward again. He took the soft leather hilt awkwardly in his freshly injured hand so that he could carve a second line on the other. Perhaps she would have been satisfied with only one cut, but Victor had a point to prove. He sheathed the blade again, unable to hold it in the stinging bite of either hand, and let his arms drop limply to his sides. There was no deception or pretense in his actions, only a challenge to be completed and a woman to be placated. “There,” he said, smirking. “Make your art.”

[Runas]

The knife was removed from her face suddenly, and a white outline of where it had pressed marred her skin until blood colored it and matched it with the rest of her flesh. Runas' eyes had narrowed when he had suddenly removed the blade from her and moved back so her hand dropped from his face. She didn't push to reset the contact. Not yet. But she did stand there tensed and with a taunting glint to her eyes, even though she didn't voice her taunt.

His words sprung past his lips in a tone of indignation, of annoyance that she would dare even suggest fear played a part in his hesitance to do as she bid. She had to swallow a victorious laugh as the knife slashed across his palm, releasing scarlet into Leth's sight. Her silver eyes had seen the padding of gauze, had wondered what it could hide, but had been caught in the display of blood. In Anumeric, Runas whispered an offering to Akajia. She would present Akajia Victor's blood and see what would come of it. Her eyes watched as he cut his other hand, but they darkened to a stormy shimmer as he resheathed the blade.

"You'll love it, Victor Lark..."

Runas looked Victor in the eye and stepped forward to stand close to him, within a foot. She lifted a hand to brush her knuckles over his cheek almost... possessively, before the hand, which was her right, dropped to grab his own right hand and to lift it for her inspection. She didn't touch the wound, having no desire to heal it even a day, but her left hand snapped out to seize the knife from the little scabbard in which Victor had placed it. She held his hand and lashed out with the pommel of the knife towards the side of his head, aiming to stun Victor or to perhaps, luckily, knock him out into blissful unawareness.

[Victor Lark]

A breathy chuckle, pushed from his throat by the notion of art appreciation, caught in the moist summer air as his tender hand was wrenched from its comfortable place at his side. Through the false affection in her touch and the visible discomfort on his face, Victor raised his eyebrows expectantly. But then he finally saw some unfamiliar conviction spark in her eyes, and his expression faltered. He did not have the chance to frown.

Presently his balance was compromised, his head inexplicably tossed to one side, and a terrible throbbing enveloped the bone beside his eye. “Gah!” he roared as he staggered to regain his feet, tearing himself from her grasp. His vision was still spinning when his hand rose to gingerly test the new pain, as if he could guard it from any further assault; he did not realize how he painted his face with his own blood. Befuddled feet brought him backwards, tossing up frothy grey sand, pushing him away from her in subconscious defense. But when he regained his sight and, subsequently, his bearing, his weakness turned to anger.

Victor advanced on her, dripping red dimples into the sand. There he stole the wrist of the hand that held his dagger, gripping to obstruct the blood that would flow to her hand as he slathered her skin with his own. The pain in the effort pierced into him like a blade anew, but confusion and fury served as salve, pushing it to the back of his mind. He had half a mind to lift the other hand to her throat, but he still needed her voice. His face neared hers again, so that he could try and breathe intimidation at that brazen beauty. “Why did you do that?” He asked through a stiff jaw, shaking her arm roughly. His voice wavered. “Give me my dagger.”

[Runas]

Finally, her laughter, her bottled up amusement, trilled from her as she saw the pain she had caused him. She didn't reach for his hand again, for his body had stepped away from hers, but she almost bowed in her laughter. She hadn't enjoyed causing pain like this so much before. She wished Seven were here to be enjoyed like this, to watch gagged and bound on the sand as she tried to break him with his pretty little bird. She could dream of such things, though.

Her laughter dimmed as Victor returned in raw anger. His hand seized hers in a painful clutch and his face was shoved to hers so she caught the stink of anger. Blood stained both of their skin, flecks thrown at careless movements to speckle their skin. Even now, with his threat looming in her face, she wanted to laugh at him. But she shouldn't. So she lifted her free hand to lash across his cheek and then to clamp on his shoulder. She felt a thrill of excitement tremble up her spine as she heard the smack of palm to blood splattered roundness. Could she give him an even greater headache? Admittedly, she earned for his consciousness to dip into blissful unawareness, but she enjoyed causing him pain. The pleasure was of the variety best classified as "sick".

"I wish to hurt you, little birdie. I think your Dra will like it when you go home to him." Runas said sweetly, her contempt showing. In all honesty, she liked Victor. She liked him very much. But, unfortunately for him, he knew someone that had earned Runas' ire, and was arguably close to that one person. "I like it too much. Now let me go." Her hand squeezed his shoulder maliciously.

[Victor Lark]

The second impact rang in his ears before Victor even realized that his head had been thrown again. His throat loosed a pained groan and his free fist tightened in frustration—the bloody wound protested sharply, and he winced. “Stop—stop it,” he muttered, but it was not an honest plea. He would have endured a further assault, at least to know why he must, and at most...

The world was spinning, or maybe it was his head. Shards of tears perforated his eyes and vision. Between the clouds of confusion, there emerged the bitter ray of words.

“Don’t call me that,” he spat, but that smooth and amused titter did not pause. Dra, she said. Though apparently he had one, Victor did not know what it meant. Seven had always been Just Seven, and Victor had all but given up on probing the man about the contents of that insignificant quarter of his blood.

“What are you...” He began, but then the words between the words arranged themselves in his mind. “Seven? Why?” He shrugged irritably against her grip on his shoulder and raised his eyes briefly to the moon, as if it could rescue him. But it was only the moon, distant and faceless. For that moment, the world was silent, save for the drip, drip of his blood on the ground. It no longer hit the sand in with a dull pat, but rather dripped into a puddle of itself. As the little red circles grew, so did Victor’s weakness. Warm, black wool teased the edges of his vision.

Then he raised her wrist with a harsh jolt and yanked the hilt of his weapon from her grasp. Exasperation replaced confusion; that, combined with the slow recovery of his stationary head, culminated into a short surge of fury. He pointed the dagger at her face, his own anger manifest, but it shook wildly in his unsteady hand. Then suddenly it dropped again to his side. Perhaps the remnants of her hypnotism had left him caring for her life, but more likely it was mere distraction in rage that spared her. Death meant little to his hollow understanding, so little that it did not occur to him to bestow it on her.

Instead, he threw her arm from where it had remained between his bloodied fingers and raised his own to her face. The unmarred back of his hand knocked hard against the elegant arch of her cheekbone, hoping to send her falling. “You’re crazy,” he said. The tears in his eyes could be heard in his voice. “You’re sheep-headed and you’re moon piss. I’ll tell the whole city your stupid secret, shifter.”

But first, he would repay her for her cruelties. Whether or not she had fallen, he took the opportunity to bring his hand down again, thrashing a bloody palm against the square of her shoulder. She was taller, and in those moments she was stronger, but he would be above her. He had to be. What was he, if not that?

[Victor Lark]

But then her hand rose up out of the darkness at the corner of his eyes. A hard fist collided with the side of his head; it seemed to push through his hair and skin until it reached the tender bone and the mind beneath, leaving him with more throbbing and disorienting pain. He felt suddenly full of nothing, nothing but air, nothing but hot air that smelled like blood and salt and anger. The black edges of the world suddenly swarmed in front of his view of her face, so he looked at the ocean, then the sky. They each faded away as soon as he saw them, until everything was black, and he could not feel his fingers...

Consciousness kindly escaped him before he could suffer the force of impact with the grey-cold and red-warm sand. He would not hear her final words of vengeance or watch her proud feet abandon him where he lay. His body could only wait for the tide to rise and wake him, and hopefully heal his sand-stinging wounds before they drained him entirely.

[Templar]

Runas: Hypnotism: 2 - Seduction: 4 - Interogation: 2 - Rhetorics: 3 - Dagger: 2 Lore: Victor: Meditation: 1 - Seduction: 2 - Observation: 3 - Interogation: 2 - Brawling: 1 Lore: Race: Ethaefal