(flashback) a meeting of like minds (cy and clem)

[Clement Reijnder]

“Yes, you could have. Thank you for bringing my shirt back to me. I’m rather fond of it.”

It was new. There wasn’t blood all over it like his old one. He liked that about it.

He should have remembered the look of the jackal tearing at flesh, or in the very least the sight of the girl with blood around her mouth. That wasn’t what he was seeing at the moment, though. What he was seeing was a stubborn little girl trying to act tough. What she needed was a good swift swat to the behind and a corner to sit in.

It was then that he suddenly looked rather tired of it. The line of his lips fell into the slightest of scowls as he stared at her. He reached up until his hand was in front of her forehead, and then he flicked his index finger against his thumb to thump her smack in the middle of it. He wasn’t amused. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t really much of anything at all. Despite the fact that he was an only child, the action had been quite brotherly.

His hand dropped, waiting to see what she would do.

“Didn’t anyone teach you any manners? And we’re not even. I was nothing but nice to you, and now you’re being a little brat who won’t even tell me her name.” He put his hand to his chest. “I’m Clement, by the way.”

[Cyrah]

Her hands came up to swat furiously at nothing but air after he'd flicked her; another series of absolutely astonished noises, and then she stopped and kicked him, as hard as she could, in the shin. Which wasn't very hard. Maybe it earned her a bruise, but even that wasn't too likely. “Clement is a stupid name!” she cried, whirling away from him to stomp back to the other side of the table. Rubbing the palm of her hand to her forehead where he'd flicked her, like it hurt a great deal. Of course it didn't, it simply wounded her pride. And that, at least, Cyrah had a great wealth of. “And you weren't that nice to me, anyway – you'd just finished strangling someone, so don't talk to me as if you've any manners of your own.” She snatched an apple from the pale she'd brought to him, and hurled it at his head. A good, irrational temper tantrum was well under way. After the apple, a pear. After the pear, a nectarine. She just kept grabbing whatever she could get her fingers around to pelt him with, one bit of fruit at a time, until either she ran out or he put a stop to it. “I was working! I'm very busy! And I've already said thank you several times, so just leave me alone and don't try to find me again, because no I don't have manners and you'll not be the one to teach me any!”

[Clement Reijnder]

He still reacted properly to the kick with a bellowing, “Ow!”

He bent down to rub at his leg, growling just a little under his breath. He’d take a bar stool to the face, but a kick from a kid left him whining and complaining under his breath. He didn’t bother looking up at her when she moved off until he got hit in the head with an apple. It caused his brain to spin the slightest bit, eyes going blurry. His back snapped upright so that he sat tall in his chair.

Now he was mad. He got madder as the pear bounced off of him, most likely bound to leave a bruise. By the point the nectarine gave way against his skin leaving a bit of a mess behind, he was at his maddest. He let out a snarling growl, pushing the table up and out of his way as he dove for her. Jerky flew every which way and the pail went loudly clattering to the ground.

His fingers went around her little wrists, and while he was quick to kick her feet out from under her, he seemed to at least be aware enough to not use too much force. He didn’t want to hurt her. He just wanted her to stop throwing fruit at him.

He was quick to sit on her so she couldn’t get up, putting her hands above her head. He leaned down, looking at her with narrowed eyes. Very quietly, clearly upset, he said, “You listen to me… I may have been strangling him, but you were the one face down in Dusker. Drugged Dusker at that. I was more than nice to you. I covered you up. I carried you here. Gave you my food, and really didn’t expect a single thing back for it. I gave you my bed to sleep in. I didn’t touch you. And I stayed up the majority of the night to make sure you were okay.”

He tightened his grip just a little more.

“I could have left you there. I could have let you roll around in the sand at the mercy of every restless Scorpion and evil Dusker there. I didn’t. I brought you here. You could have ripped my damned throat out, and I brought you here to my home. I’m not trying to teach you manners! I’m trying to point out that you’re being an ungrateful little shyke who needs a good firm slap about the head to realize she’s being a petchin’ terror! And for your information, you little monster, Clement is not a stupid name! It means gentle and merciful, and I’m named after my great-petching-grandfather!”

[Cyrah]

She was already backing up as she'd thrown the nectarine, and when he bolted out of his chair she let out a shriek and scrambled to twist into a run – too late, though, and he caught her wrists so tightly that she couldn't shift into the form best for fighting. Not a sharp-fanged canine, just a squirming little girl, and though she thrashed and writhed, soon enough she found herself slammed against the floor with this looming human pressing down atop her. A gulp as she pulled air into her lungs, and she continued to buck and thrash beneath him after he'd pinned her wrists above her head. Clenched her eyes shut and turned her face away, like she half-expected him to strangle her this time. But even that fear didn't push her to give up; no, she just grit her teeth and stiffened underneath him, muscles tightening as she waited for whatever blow he might deliver, waited for a moment in which she had the opportunity to fight back. Because those moments always came to those who knew to look for them, to those who expected they would come, and never gave in. When no blow came, and he was just yelling at her, she opened her eyes again and looked back up at him. Scowled as he threw memories of the previous night back at her; yes, she'd been there, she wanted to say, but didn't, rightly presuming that would just get her smacked or something. The grip he held on her wrists would leave bruises; a little whine escaped her throat when he tightened his fingers against her skin. And then she jerked again, trying to get loose. “My name is Cyrah!” she cried out, finally, heels digging at the floor behind him. “Okay? That's my name, now let me up!”

[Clement Reijnder]

“Well, Cyrah,” he said quietly, a little too calmly, “I am going to be nice enough to let you up.”

He didn’t yet, he had a few more things to say. He did, however, loosen up the grip he had on her slightly. It wasn’t enough to allow her to shift, but at least now he wasn’t cutting off circulation.

“Then you’re going to sit down on that chair and eat some of the jerky you caused me to spill all over the ground. You’re far too skinny, and if you ever want to stop looking like a boy you’ll need to put on a bit more weight. Now… When I get up and you shift and go to rip my throat out, I want you to remember something… I cared. I cared about you, Cyrah. Otherwise I would have left you for dead or worse. I cared.”

He bent down until he could kiss her forehead despite her fuss and fight. Then he pushed up off the ground, releasing her from his little prison. There was a weary glance at her as he started to move to right his table.

[Cyrah]

A grimace stole across her mouth when he proclaimed to care. He was lying; she knew he was lying. They never cared, not unless they cared to use those feelings against you in the end. She didn't believe him, not for a moment, and she swore privately that she would kill this man, some day, when the time was right and weighted and it would serve a purpose. And she just knew that one day killing him would mean something. She knew it. The second he let her up, she ripped off her dress and kicked off her sandals, already in a crawl on all-fours as the light flashed about her, glimmering swirls, and the clackety-clack of claws hit the hardwood. The black jackal bolted from the room, disappearing into what shadows were leaning along the corridor, leaving clothing and fruit and human behind. END!

[Spavento]

Cyrah +3 Hunting +1 Unarmed Combat Lore: Scent/Signs/Taste of Mirage Lore: Effects of Mirage (Experience) Clement +1 Brawling +3 Torture +1 Rhetoric Lore: Kelvic Shapeshifting Lore: Effects of Mirage (Appearance/Symptoms) Additional notes: I really enjoyed the way each of you went about killing your prey. I also enjoyed the twisted kindness of the whole interaction. Your lores represent the different view you both had on the experience of Mirage, one first hand, and the other watching someone under the effects.