[Serpent's Elixirs] Succubus/Incubus [Izdihar]

[Gracen]

twenty-fifth of winter, five hundred eleven after the valterrian Of all the apothecaries in all the world, he had to walk into this one. The road was long, the desert full of tiny terrors that came out at night and killed a man before morning, and he was grimy with travel, weary with it, and yet the lights seemed to shine a bit brighter around him, as if he attracted the stuff. One of his tutors long ago had taken him atop a tower to point out the stars, Zintila's children, and name them, writing them on his memory. Stars, the names of Ethaefal, and even his fanciful stories about collapsed stars that became dark holes from which light itself could not escape. He was now such a phenomenon, no longer brightening as some reflection of summer's glory, but pulling light to himself greedily, if unconsciously, the better to devour it, to hide it from the world. Revenge was a path of cinders burning under his feet, and certainly somebody would have to clean up the floors upon his departure. What remained to be seen was whether or not there would also be blood on the floor. He was armed and quite possibly dangerous. But he wanted something better to find oblivion in the coming evening than the cheap mirage available amid the pillars of dust. His older, more expensive tastes had come to the fore. Yet this girl had the gall to take offense at his questions, at his gold, as if one couldn't purchase death and delight, sin and salvation from a good apothecary. "Listen," he said, pronouncing her name rather well if laced with condescension, something no Eypharian was prepared to endure from a lesser being, "Hajirah, was it? It's too hot for a proper winter out there and I'm sure there are places you'd much rather be. Why don't you do us both a favor and give me a name at least, and then I'll be out of your space and out of your hair. Try a little diplomacy, no? You'll make better sales that way."

[Izdihar]

The constrictor dosage for Rasken's infamous Morning Brew glowed in a stray shaft of sunlight stabbing through the tent. It had the look of spring, fracturing water light across a youthful face graced with the dew drop beauty of an oasis. Though this particular pavilion tent boasted of a popularity that often caused it to be cramped, this young woman claimed a table of her own tucked in a corner near the door where the sultry breeze yet flapped at the pearl sewn hem of her skirts. There was space of which others could not dare claim surrounding her, allowing legs to stretch and sandal clad feet to be stepped over or around without protest. Toenails painted a sunburst shade of carnelian glittered in the light and her head lolled back against the risen back of her chair. Unpainted locks of hair that, be they let entirely free might well have brushed the ground, tumbled from a curve of braids down to glint in all the shades of oak's hardest heart. Rubies dripped from tiny earlobes, exquisite in their cut and for her class even understated. Even her gown was, in cut, understated; but the black hue of fabric claimed the most expensive of dyes and the pearls design along the hem crafted the shape of her house's wealth: leaves and vines and fruits of Semele. Khol lined eyes were mostly closed, lashes drowsing and an idle hand retired against the base of her glass where it waited on the table half drunk. Conversations spilled around her, snaked and twined like the limbs of a lover; but no one approached, no soul attempted to rouse her, to disturb her moment's respite from whatever noble debauchery she had been about the night before. If she opened her eyes, they would; but until then she existed in a little bubble of calm, encamped on all sides by the hawk and cry and madness of the Pavilion. "Diplomacy," she murmured, lashes fluttering. Life returned, resurrection falling upon as six gilded arms stirred, three of them pulling her out of reverie and calculation to straighten a spine and slide a pair of elbows to the table. The tail of her skirt hissed away, revealing a whirling trace of metallic paint leftover to dance up her wrist like ribbons. Rainwater eyes settled, heavy with slumber, on the profile of the human creature making hard time with industrious Haijirah. Izdihar of the Westwinds, daughter of the infamous Dirames, tilted her head. Lips pursed, absently puffing a stray curl away. "Sir," she spoke and sound dimmed, voice clear as diamonds, cultured as pearls. Her smile matched and some patrons might have sighed -- it was kind. Almost. Rumor claimed she was, in fact, just that. And wasn't that just suicide? Awful. There was no mistaking whom she addressed, not when Haijirah tapped Gracen upon the arm and directed him with three hands toward Izdihar's corner.

[Gracen]

Gods be good, he was tired. And the gods were not good. Neither was he. Someone addressed him. There had been a time where he deserved that honorific, so freely given here. Hajirah pointed, and he supposed that was the only answer he was going to get from her. The tent was not so large that he was given many options for who had spoken to him. Even his hardened heart was moved by such beauty, such ripe and cultured loveliness he had not seen since turned away from home. Moved, yes, but not to softness. The deadliest of creatures often wore the brightest, most verdant colors. And was kindness an impossible form of camouflage, or even a weapon? His own were mostly apparent, two swords, one longer and more curved than the other, each with its own purpose. But he wasn't using them here. This was civilized country, a city where pens were certainly sharper than swords. Gracen could not hide his weariness, so he did not try. He had yet to find a place to stow his gear and wash away the desert. A wound was still healing across his cheek, a curve under his eye, another betrayal, but like called to like. His life was ever spiraling lower. It was a wonder he didn't have to look up to see Hai. "Lady," he said, his Common shifting to a dialect so cultured that even an Eypharian would take note. Cultured, yes, and also exotic in Eyktol. There was only so much rope allotted a man and he was not yet ready to hang himself, not until Anatoli Armiger was dancing a gallows dance in step with him, and that not until others bore his wrath and died of it, squealing like the traitorous pigs they were. He walked toward her, straight as a spear, though a spear that had seen better days. Yes, she was beautiful, such a woman as he might have plucked like a plum from Sivah's own orchard, with whom he might banish the pain of life for a time. But right then he wanted more than a pretty face and a warm cunt could provide. He wanted his veins to sing and his mind to go to its own version of the Ukalas, while his body sweated and slept in its rented cradle. She looked kind, he kept thinking. "Kindness is the beginning of cruelty," he murmured to himself, quoting the poet Ifran. Yes, Gracen could read.

[Izdihar]

Interest lifted stained glass eyed beneath the shadow of her lashes and the desert sun struck through the walls of the tent to illuminate. Humor lifted a smile to her face, surprising in the languor of a morning recovery while she considered the man before her. "You greet me with the words of a friend in your mouth," she remarked in Common, a language she considered to be stifling; but it was only polite when lesser creatures could hardly obtain an equal height with her race. Despite her merely basic grasp of the language, the communication skills gifted by a fluency in Arumenic and a life spent spinning in court graced her with expected elegance. A sandal clad foot kicked lazily out, knocking against the leg of a wooden chair to send it skidding a few inches away from the table. "Sit," she invited. "And tell me what you're looking for?"

[Gracen]

Power translated across cultures, and he had grown up in another court. This one had pull, whether here or elsewhere, and though he sat down with her, he never let his guard down. This, perhaps, was why he came to the place seeking a quantum of oblivion, a discrete dose of self-banishment from his own shitty life. But rather than answer her question -- because knowing what someone wanted made it all the easier to control them -- he followed up on the strange coincidence of his borrowed words and her. "You know the poet?" he asked. "Of course you do. I'm sure it sounds better in Arumenic. Would you do me the pleasure of reciting it so?" There was tarnish on his golden looks, and tarnish on his silver tongue, but the remnants of charm remained when he made the effort to utilize them.

[Izdihar]

"Your accent is familiar," she mused. The spring bright glass was drawn closer while a set of elbows settled on the table. It tilted teacup shoulders forward and destroyed flawless posture in favor of an occasionally more attractive indolence. "River bottoms and moss shadows," she decided, nodding to herself. The fact of a travel worn outlander invited to sit at her table was not so astonishing due to the locale. The Serpent's Elixirs was patronized by a wide variety of races and socio-economic classes, particularly popular of late amid the Painted Faces. Silence stretched during which she considered his request, but at length she settled the delicate curve of her chin into the cup of a palm and met his summer sky eyes. "Kindness is the beginning of cruelty," she recited in her cradle tongue, pitching her voice to its most melodic timbre and with the spread of fingers against the tabletop and the lowering of eyes she conveyed at least two thirds of the intended nuances of Ifran of the Northwinds. The last third, she was wise enough to know, was capable of being conveyed in real life demonstration alone. This noble foreigner might "hear" the final third eventually, but time alone would tell. Maybe in mere minutes.

[Gracen]

"I'm far from home," he admitted, "but it dogs my heels every day and each night." He could but nod to her assessment, thinking she was bright as the hot sun on the sand, but also as cool as the hidden waters, an oasis by night. Courtly admiration was not a skill he oft practiced of late, and he was not about to ruin a good thing by talking too much. Admiring the s-curve she created, whether unthinking or with cunning, that shape favored by artists, he twisted into a contrapposto, hips cocked, torso twisted. It might have been more obviously impressive had he been in the costume most preferred by artists -- that is, sans costume -- but it gave an impression, and her mind would be like a sharp trap if she were as powerful an Eypharian as his gut said she was. "Ah," he said, almost sighed, struck in the heart by a golden arrow. One had to brace oneself for beauty and there was little of it in his life, especially after a visit to Hai and a fight along the way back. Life was a marathon race through the sewers of Ravok, and here she was with kindness in one hand, cruelty in the other, and four arms to spare for the gods knew what. He wished in that moment to be taken into the bosom of Summer, to have the Summer King's daughter spill his blood upon the altar. What sweet oblivion! Or a moment of it until his soul was seeded anew into a new life, perchance a happier life. "That was not fair," he breathed. "Truly you are the jewel-lotus floating among the mire."

[Izdihar]

"This is Ahnatep, Outlander," Izdihar lifted her glass. It cast emerald shadows across his face with the unfading light, and the image caused her to smile until the corners of her eyes crinkled. "We redefined fair an era ago." The tilt of a shoulder, the draw of her glass to lips for a swallow, all these things conveyed self deprecation for the foreigner to pick up like crumbs of cake. He had to be wise enough to catch them, however, and of those non-Eypharians Izdihar had met, very few of them had been from somewhere other than Ahnatep. And in Ahnatep? People were just smarter. It was by association, every Eypharian was sure. "Home haunts you," she observed, settling back again. "What do they call you there, Outlander? What sound would you have me find for you here? You were harrassing Harijah for something, after all." Now she was teasing him. It was clear she knew very well what he had been after the shop girl for.

[Gracen]

"So I had noticed," he said mildly, still recovering. He understood subtlety, did Gracen, though he had less occasion to use it anymore. Back home there were languages of fans, languages of flowers, and of course women had any number of subtle languages that no man, hexabrachian or otherwise, could hope to comprehend entirely. The sway of their internal ocean would forever confound the men brave enough to sail them. Perhaps all those arms required a more subtle, a more agile mind, but Gracen was convinced that he was better than everyone else, at least when he wasn't convinced that he was a proud stone worn down to base mud beneath the boots of traitors and gods alike. "I was a knight once," he admitted. "The higher they rise, the farther there is to fall. I came seeking distraction, but I've already found it. The rest can wait for me." Somehow he would find MaeClair or someone who could give him a lead in one direction or the other. There had been something about Cian Galensar in Mura, but he would only go back there if he was sure which tree to shake to find out where he had gone from there. His brow was furrowing at the thought of one of his targets, and he forced it smooth again. "But knight or no, I can still manage not to underestimate the one sitting across from me."

[Izdihar]

"A knight?" A smile caught her mouth unaware, delight taking her off guard at the image -- shining charger, valiant scion -- that painted itself in her mind at the word. "Are you really?" Gracen had managed to catch her interest, a spark of fascination some amid the Painted Faces might think gauche but was unexpectedly endearing illuminating her countenance. The remains of her drink, still fresh as new spring, was downed and the glass tipped to the table between them right on it's side. Handfuls of fingers caught glass lip and base, rim and side to set the glass to spinning, sunlight promptly shattering off all of the blown surfaces to explode miniature rainbows across the tent interior. "Syliras? No? Kenash? What are you afraid of underestimating me about?" The questions were quick, pounced one after the other like sand kittens after darts of rainbow light. "Or is it yourself you fear? You appear most susceptible to a woman's charms. A line of poetry, a half coy curve of spine and you near swoon." Oh, she was teasing him. Wasn't she? The corners of her eyes crinkled. "Or was that the heat?"