[The Golden Dragon] Marmoreal Kin [Devmond Incarnata]

[Seven Xu]

Summer 31, 511 AV

The boy whose blood mixed with that of a Widow’s and painted his Lhavitian features all shades of pallid rose and ivory had spent his days balancing the freedoms of young adulthood with its drawbacks of routine. When he wasn’t holed up within the residential district of Stormhold, either hard at work or hard at play, he wandered aimless in the thoroughfares in endless exploration. Tonight, his lips craved the sweet burn of alcohol and its uncanny ability to fuel inspiration beneath his fingertips.

Twilight was softly fading and cool air filled with the fragrances of a blooming season and the sweetness of smoke that wafted through open glass. The small establishment he had ignored so long was tantalizing even in its outer appearance; dried vine crept up its walls, tendrils like long fingers scraping across the Golden Dragon’s honey skin. A beautifully painted sign was suspended over his head.

The tinkle of a gilded bell accompanied the creak of neglected hinges and the scrape of heavy wooden door across a floor that had not been treated in a hundred years. The halfblood had expected—well, he wasn’t entirely sure; certainly not the labyrinth of tiny nooks so lavish in their decoration and bold in their privacy. It was unlike the dingy lantern-lit simplicity of the Rearing Stallion or the pretentious oval of the White Swan. No one asked him for his reservation or offered lukewarm ale with a surly glower. In fact, when he finally found a cubicle that was not filled with that of a man and woman in the throes of uninhibited passion, some well-carved woman offered him a bottle of wine, which he gladly took.

She lingered long enough for Seven to realize her motives, for he was in fact within the walls of a whorehouse and the glimmering bracelet that adorned her mocha wrist was unmistakable in its symbolism. Seven’s pale cheeks turned ruddy and he murmured an apology under flabbergasted breathiness that he was not, in fact, looking for that sort of company. Mizas were exchanged in the promise of ‘dreamsmoke’—she had offered, “It will calm your poor nerves, child. I’ll have a server bring it to you.”—and then the tantalizing curve of bosom turned into a river of black curls across a retreating back.

Seven wasn’t nervous; simply disinterested. His brow furrowed and lips crinkled in silent protest and the small of his back found a velvet animal’s skin that was stretched across a gaudy lounge. Maroon-wrapped pupils finally settled on the worn book he’d smuggled in under one arm, and its ink and charcoal-marred pages were flipped through with the distinct crispness that only comes with resilient parchment.

[Devmond Incarnata]

He had only worked as a waiter in the Golden Dragon for two weeks when Tyras pulled him aside into his office on the lower floors. Unsubtly was he reminded that his job was to please the other patrons, not the companions. The threat of a broken bracelet would not have been enough, but the other employees had been warned as well. The very touch of his fingertips sent the women fleeing as though burned by ten hot irons. Tonight, he retreated alone to the kitchens. Even as he distracted himself by pointlessly conversing with Krath, a Jamoura chef who spoke poor Common, he silently prayed to Vitaras for patience in the ladies’ desire to keep their weekly paycheck. Surrounded by the most lovely selections of exotic races was truly a feast for more than the eyes. Their tempting clothes and coquettish personalities was what he longed for, the money only a pallet cleanser.

One of his personal favorites glided past him for a single order of Dragonsmoke. Lana, a charming human, would tease but never let Devmond any closer then a few taunting caresses in exchange for his compliments. At the moment, the Vantha gave him a kiss on the cheek, and a roll of her eyes at his languid form leaning carelessly across the counter space. “Here make yourself useful in room 4B, a hit of Dragonsmoke. The guy completely brushed me off, I always seem to ignore those hints he plays for the same team. Oh, but he’s your type, of course.” Devmond raised a curved brow. “I mean he’s androgynous as Ionu.”

“When would I ever imply something like that?”

“A few nights ago, under some Dragondust and a bottle of wine.” she said with a smug grin.

“Did I pay for that?”

“It was on one of the patron’s tab. You did all the work though.”

“Lana, please tell me she was a woman.” he said while she picked up a glass of wine from the counter, preparing to please another patron. “I only go for androgynous looking women, you know, the tight trousers and short haircuts.” Her turned face revealed only one half of the smirk’s curve before she disappeared behind the curtain. Devmond realized that his drinking habits were only getting worse under a new employment. In Kalinor, he could count in a single digit the night’s he could leave unaccounted. Alcohol was bought from his own pocket, an occasional luxury because it often spread to cover those in his company. The attitude of the Golden Dragon’s patrons, however, dropped the pretenses of tradition, the dust in the air relaxing all sense of personal cares. Even the young women would offer to pay for his glass if he’d stay and chat, a bottle if he’d never go home that night. Now, even his casual friends could mess with a drowsy memory by filling in what ‘really’ happened during those black-outs.

Whistling a low tune, he picked up the ornate glass bottle of dreamsmoke, giving it a little of a test breather through the long hose. Blowing out a smoky goodbye to Krath, Devmond navigated the narrow passageways filled with the moans and laughter from shadows against the thin curtains. A few giggling teenage Benshiras, obviously drunk and most likely on a first visit, tried to peek into one of the rooms on his right. Taking liberty with his free hand, Devmond guided the waist of the closest in reach to a room farther down the corridor. With his lips brushing her ear, he assured that this room was empty. Leaving the girl stuttering and blushing with a promise to soon return to see what else he could do for her.

Down the hall, he pushed aside the assigned privacy curtain and found a man sitting alone...reading a book? Adjusting the leather straps near his chest, Devmond felt immediately uncomfortable in this strange get-up. All employees wore about as much as covered the essentials. His outfit in particular was no exception with risky cut leather pants that accentuated the sharp 'V' of his lower abdomen, and the left-over material strapped haphazardly across his bare torso. A few glittering armbands and layered chain necklaces later, he truly looked the part of paid fare. This young man should have been the angel on his right shoulder: the pale cotton summer clothes, the paleness of his skin, and that shock of white hair. He had to be at least several years younger than him, probably more by the soft curves of his face. Aren’t you a pretty little bitch, was what he thought.

“Good evening, sir.” was what he said.

[Seven Xu]

Slender fingers worked the pages of The Art of Shielding: Volume I as they had countless times before. He knew every word on every page and in his boredom had left scrawling Lhavitian in bleeding ebony ink across its well-broken spine. People frequented the Golden Dragon for its drinks, its food, its women (or men), but rarely to sit down and read a book.

A shift in the silky curtain that both assigned privacy and kept in the residual stench of previous patrons—perfume, sweat, alcohol—produced an unmistakably lanky figure, straight-backed and holding an offer of what the woman had called ‘dreamsmoke’ in a vessel as lavish and gaudy as the room in which he sat. In fact the only thing that wasn’t overdressed, was this stranger. Seven consciously held back a nagging grin as he took in the sight of the dark-haired woman’s replacement. It looked as if the poor man had looted a stable and attempted to wear a leather bridle. He wondered what the point was, to wear anything at all.

Something particularly jarring occurred to him: his bashful expression of disinterest in the woman. Had she—? The blaze of skin prickled Seven’s cheeks and slack lips tightened into a momentary frown. It should not have been surprising; but the young man had more interest in the atmosphere of the whorehouse, than its amenities. He had a readily available source for his whims; one that did not douse their skin in fragrance or charge him for a loving caress.

“Good evening.”

As the stoic figure bent forward to place the heavy bottom of the vase on the low cherry wood table that separated them, Seven’s lips opened into a gasp of mild surprise. Despite the man’s bronzed complexion, the length of limb and grace of movement was unmistakable. “You’re a Symenestra.” Seven’s voice bordered between polite accusation and simple observation, but the smile that followed his comment showed no signs of the scathing racial prejudice a common human would express, had they made the same ascertainment.

The book thumped shut. Seven’s intrigue remained fixed within the pools of honey-gold beneath unnatural violet tendrils obscuring a beautiful, but distinctly masculine countenance. There was something in that blood he couldn’t place; it confounded him as much as it vexed him. “Stay?” Pale brows hardly a shade darker than sun-starved skin knitted together and those deep garnets settled on another brief sweep of the figure, “Uh. I’ll give you money for your time, I just want to talk.”

Seven suddenly felt the need to do something with his now empty hands, the book having been long since set aside between a thigh and the arm of the lounge. One wrapped around the small hose to deliver a silvery bulb to his prone mouth. There was a careless inhale, followed by a sputter and cough as fragrant white smoke oozed thickly from Seven’s inexperienced lips and nose. His face wrinkled further into self-depreciation before that same hand, now free of the offending mouthpiece, dove between strands of white where a thin ring of sweat had gathered beneath his own burn of embarrassment.

“Maybe you can tell me what the fuck that is.” Profanity sparked a smile punctuated by a pair of white points and residual smoke.

[Devmond Incarnata]

The sudden questioning as to his heritage made Devmond recoil his hands from the jar like a retracting viper. His body tensed ready to knock the angel of his cushion, or run like hell. A cold-burn tipped tongue was primed to rip away if it came to exchanges in witty retorts. The echoed years of warning from finding his brother’s body face down in the waves, and being dragged to an alley that’s darkness muffled the sound of bones breaking had taught him the emotional and physical personalities of human brutality. Although it was not only humans that gave him trouble, they seemed to be the quickest to draw violence against the word “Symenestra”. This was understandable, however, as they were often the key race harvested for newborns. Devmond’s daughter had been seeded by a very lovely, but naive human who only in her last days in Mizahar had turned to spit on his heritage, trying desperately to end her life before the poison bled. Like a languid little frog, she sobbing and thrashed in the birthing bed against his gentle words that were useless even in its harsh logic. No, even the very best from that race always ended too weak-minded to truly see the purpose for which all Symenestra strived. Like every “Widow” who were born under the earth, Devmond was happy to live another day after the next.

It seemed the god Lhex would continue that favor as the smile, which could hide even evil so those could not be trusted, became something pure in its spoken sincerity. There were many times that the Symenestra had been questioned, all selfish reasons, but this human’s eyes did not hold that cloudy pollution that collected on its surface from darker thoughts. The patron had not issued a command, but was even considering his opinion. Devmond was not sure how to think of this man, this boy, who read in a gentleman’s club, and wanted to have a conversation with his scantily-clad server. The flourish of bad language did give way to a bit more respect, however. Maybe he even drank too.

Confidently taking a large inhale of the dreamsmoke, a hacking cough mixed with spittle came out of the pale man’s mouth and nose. Smirking, Devmond took the silver mouthpiece from the white hand and put it to his own lips. “I hope you do not mind.” he said. Taking a deep breath, he let the smoke sit in his throat feeling its tendrils tickle the back of his tongue. He pushed it back farther, and in a sudden force let the heavy air escape through his nostrils. “Make sure you only exhale once it collects in your mouth, and take smaller whiffs of the dreamsmoke until your used to it. Take it slowly or you’ll burn your throat. It should be relaxing.”

The man seemed fascinated by the strange contraption, watching the bubbles pop on the surface of the water jar. A bookish type with a curious streak would probably appreciate a more technical explanation. He could not mind a bit more filled silence. “The tobacco is put here in this bowl near the top. The charcoal that lies of the bowl’s metal grate lid keeps the tobacco from burning directly. When you breathe in through the hose, air is heated by the charcoal and vaporizes the leaves, producing smoke which extends into the water at the bottom jar. The water cools the hot smoke, thus creating the bubbling surface tension, and fills to the top of the jar where the hose is attached. Most waterpipes have this basic operation.”

[Seven Xu]

The significance of the brief recoil was not lost on Seven. Had he been more raw to the racism that he had endured on the high peaks of his home, perhaps he would have kept his mouth shut. A curse on the household Xu, their neighbours had proclaimed; Zhao had been seduced like a love struck whore and left with a monster child.

Time heals all wounds, so the saying goes; the disdainful looks and scathing remarks were only distant memories. What he had retained, however, was the ability to speak segments of a whispered language. “Thank you,” the brief gesture in Symenos was rigid, and it rode thick on Lhavitian overtones that hardly did justice to the Symenestra’s language of seduction. Again, he blushed.

Elbows met knees and one upturned palm cradled Seven’s chin. He leered inquisitively at the Symenestra’s display of properly smoking whatever tobacco bubbled and burned within the gaudy vase that sat quite content on that well-polished table. A calm inhale, a controlled exhale; he’d simply panicked when hot air filled his mouth and choked the fragrant smoke down. An uncomfortable burn at the back of his throat reminded him that the previous waitress had, indeed, left him with a bottle of wine. The long-necked vessel was fished from the floor and propped between his thighs so that he could free the wedged cork under the push of two thumbs.

The elaboration on the device that was meant to be smoked and enjoyed rather than coughed and questioned was welcomed with a widening smile and the return of Common to his tongue. “Fascinating; does it do anything? I mean, other than bubble and smell.” Seven rocked forward to get a closer look at the cooking and fragrant tobacco, unsure of whether or not it was worth a second attempt and looking like an even bigger fool to the violet-haired consort. He already felt as if he was holding the man from more attractive prospects, with the promise of a few paltry mizas. Whatever means of cushion he sat upon shifted as he settled again, content to leave the dreamsmoke in the lips of beautiful company.

Seven could feel his sobriety evaporating between them in the disappearing smoke; a question posed and answered by his own floundering mind regarding the side-effects of such a frivolous device. He tried to trap obscured gold in his gaze again and fill the air between them with their voices.

“I don’t often come to places like this.” I don’t ever come to places like this, Seven thought. The long neck of the wine bottle was graciously tipped to dry lips and he felt the cool rush of bittersweet fermented fruit rush down his smoke-heated throat. He swallowed, thumbed the tip, and offered the next mouthful to the Symenestra. “Forgive me, I didn’t ask you your name.” Did whores give out names? “Mine is Seven.”

[Devmond Incarnata]

“Thank you.”

The Symenestra coughed a puff of smoke at the sound of his native language. It had been months since he had lain in his web hearing the soft walls reverberate the constant hum of its lovely tones as his daughter sang herself to sleep in the other room. A ruddy blush deepened against its pallid canvas, embarrassed by the rigid accent even though it was a kind gesture. Trying to hie how he had been taken off-guard, Devmond puffed out a larger cloud of smoke to hover near his eyes. It was rare for anyone on the surface to know even the smallest fragments of his language. There could only be a strange tale behind those eyes that were colored like roses.

His questions were suddenly distracted by a bottle of wine pulled out like a circus magician from between the patron’s legs. Taking a long swig, he questioned Devmond more about the establishment’s line of smoke, wondering about its actual purpose. The Symenestra answered, although he himself often thought the effects were actually of the sugar-pill type variety, “Like alcohol, dreamsmoke is a depressant. It relaxes the muscles of the fatigued while also relaxing your mind. It has led some to experience strange visions.” Devmond smirked. “It's also pretty potent mixed with wine, after the alcohol's initial high wears away. Here you could say that it serves as a way to ease the money out of patron’s pockets by lowering there ability to say no to a beautiful woman. I’d take it easy on this stuff, if your not under the gnosis of Ionu.”

That last tip had been given in goodwill, but also out of desire to gain the man’s trust. His interest was piqued in the mysterious nature that could be combined with such honesty. Introducing his name as Seven, he handed the bottle casually over. “Usually I don’t get asked, nice change.” he took a sip. The alcohol burned a little against the matted smoke, but somehow pain felt good like this. “It’s Devmond.”

It appeared this man really did want to talk, just talk. Of course, it could be that this was just a lead-up to something that burned more calories. Devmond was not the type that needed introductions for sex, but he understood that there were those that seemed to enjoy the candle-lit dinner tease. Although he preferred women, when the lights were blown out, flesh was flesh. At least that was how he convinced himself with the strange requests that happened at this new job. It also helped that the dreamsmoke was already starting to make his limbs lengthen to Seven’s area of the couch. Leaning his side against the animal print throw, Devmond put an arm on the top of the couch near Seven’s shoulders. “Now that we have introductions aside, mind telling me how you can speak Symenos?” he said. Taking another gulp of smoke, blew it teasing against the white neck. “You say you don’t often come to places like this, but are you that unfamiliar with the ways of my people?”

[Seven Xu]

Seven would have laughed, had the wine already taken hold of his inhibition. Instead, his smile grew into a wide ivory line of teeth to combat the waft of breathy smoke against his neck. The wine bottle was exchanged for another—more controlled—puff from the end of the odd pipe, and he exhaled a long stream of smoke from the Cheshire grin. “The ways of your people,” he repeated at the end of a line of fragrant smoke. “I am your people.”

A blond brow furrowed and he shifted to sit facing Devmond, one knee bent beneath his small frame. “Well, sort of. My Symenos is god-awful. I learned what I know mostly from books. Or book; The Viratassa.” It had been the first time a Symenestra hadn’t immediately pinned him as what exactly he was—a little spiderkin, or tacked ‘Dra’ to the front of his name, or spat on his low birth. Perhaps he shouldn’t have ruined the illusion. A single finger lifted between his sagging lips to press against one of two needle-sharp canines. They were a bit short and fat and could not extend; they had once been likened to that of a child’s. Nonetheless, he pushed until his jaw responded in reflex and a single drip of burning translucent venom dribbled onto his finger.

“The Harvest?”

His mind could still see the violet-tinted leer wrapped in an incredulous pale face as if it had been weeks, and not years ago.

“The unfortunate reality, Seven, is that the Harvest and surrogates are the only way for my kind to continue. I doubt that there’ll ever come a time when surrogates aren’t necessary anymore; that is just wishful thinking.”

Seven wiped the weak half-venom on his pant leg and murmured. “A whorehouse is a pretty good place to start, I guess.” A laugh accompanied a bold reach towards the leather strapping that wrapped Devmond’s chest, “Though it looks like you were the one that was harvested, so to speak.”

The exploratory hand fell away from the Symenestra and he settled back into his seat, letting his head drop against the back of the gaudy lounge to stare at an equally gaudy ceiling. It hadn’t occurred to him that he’d successfully pinned one arm that had moved too close beneath his neck. “I’ve not met many like you. Only one in my home town; but you’re the third I’ve stumbled across in Syliras. Strange, isn’t it? I get further from Kalea, and suddenly there are Symenestra all over the place.”

Pallid lips found the end of the wine bottle again and Seven released the intruding limb as he sat up straight. The dark maroon that sloshed about in its bottle had begun to take effect: Seven’s tight-lipped smiles would evolve into full-blown grins and laughter would bubble out of his comments had they deserved amusement or not. Had the brothel afforded him any other whore, Seven may have politely taken his leave—but he didn’t see Devmond as some piece of flesh one paid for, like meat at market—no, he was genuinely interesting. Beautiful, of course, but Seven craved the satisfaction of knowledge; not the warmth of a body. The bottle was handed back to his scantily-clad companion. “Did you come from Kalinor?”

[Devmond Incarnata]

Strange how something you did not even really want, when taken from you completely, suddenly became so hungrily needed to fill back into its place. Seven had drawn away his hand, releasing his capture of Devmond’s right arm. It had been a careless motion, but the heated flush came all the same. He was so accustomed to patrons, let alone past fleeting lovers, roughly forcing their way into his false front of trust, into that empty shell of Eros, that this gentle dealing was as frustrating as it was desirable. Seven took the bottle again, seemingly oblivious to the angst going in the heads of his ‘whore’.

“Well, technically this is a gentleman’s club, although I will not deny that a companion will have a hard time keeping their V-card.” Devmond said. “Their first duty is to be good company, second to be good in bed.”

He watched the new found kin carefully. His movements were graceful and confident, the sharp teeth dribbling invisible death. It was bluntly obvious he had the same common ancestor as the spider, although all that now in hindsight and inexperience. Dealing with humans was as simple as they were, in their shallow intentions, but to interact with the same blood made him feel vulnerable. Having, until at the very moment, gone long without interacting with his own kin away from Kalinor, made it incredulous that this half-breed could reference that many so casually. His home literally discarded other races like trash, their bodies littering the cave floors. Devmond wondered what spurned those Vitaras blessed bloodlines to ever embarrass themselves by informing some pathetic creature like that.

And here he wanted to be touched again.

Devmond scowled, and grabbed the bottle that was slowly getting easier to swindle. These unusual feelings were all due to a strange circumstance and too much gluttony by not having monetary responsibility for the potent substances, he willed himself to blame. They were in fact making him forget his previous advice to not mix the two depressants, although what was intentioned by conscience and what was now burning in his kidneys was becoming harder to separate. All he could understand now was that he was thinking like flies fly, back where they started, and that he was more aware of his teasing outfit than the question directed at him.

He undid the metal clasps on the straps and let the whole thing fall behind him. Feeling a bit more clearheaded, Devmond gave a confident grin to Seven. “I think when they gave me the outfit, it was a sad attempt to be reminiscent of the ‘bondage’ fetish. I can’t say it’s to my taste, it does seem to give them impression that I am under some sort of slavery,” he said. His eyes became narrow although the pleasant expression did not falter. “I would say that it is reasonable that Harvesters would go to other regions beside Kalea. It is troublesome finding surrogates in Lhavit or other nearby human nests since they are much more educated about the ruse. Although, I have not been as fortunate to meet others of my…our kind even within Syliras.”

A horrifying notion suddenly slapped itself down into his muddled thoughts, splashing the torrent emotions dry and cool. What if this mysterious individual was associated with the Syliras’ authority? The half-breed took a strange interest in his heritage and purpose, was it that far off to assume that he was not as innocent as he assumed? The knights were uneasy by the local Symenestra in Syliras, both traveler and long-time resident. Devmond had been careful with every exchange. Now, for a pretty face that was not even the favored gender,his purpose for leaving Kalinor was waving in the breeze of the dreamsmoke. The bottle of wine was only half finished and he wanted to vomit.

Quickly riffling through the escaped words, he tried to quickly find a way to ease the guilt that could find its way back. Devmond would not lie to do this, a simple twist here and there would do. “Of course, there are a few who have left Kalinor for more personal desires then biological obligation. Not to betray the capital and Vitaras’ honor, of course.” he said. “The city of Kalinor can be a bit too ‘small-town’. There are less than nine hundred residents, everyone knows your skeletons by name. This job was actually quite in league with my old reputation back home. There they do not have such establishments as this. Our people tend to be very stingy when it comes to casual sex, don’t they? Family and the ties of relationships being so honorable.”

[Seven Xu]

“A gentleman’s club,” Seven finally repeated. His tone succumbed to frivolous laughter at an afterthought, “I don’t think many come here to see gentlemen. What a silly name for a whorehouse—it should be called a ...” The halfblood flopped unceremoniously against the animal print throw as he laid on his half of the lounge, knees bent, legs drawn close. “I don’t know.” Another laugh accompanied his intoxicated confusion, and two thumbs worked the glassy green mouth of his beloved wine bottle as Seven memorized the pattern on the ceiling. “I guess women must come here for company, too. I think I was mistaken as such,” his mind drifted back to the tight-lipped woman with the cascade of ebony curls that had promptly taken her leave, and sent him a man, “not that I mind; you are excellent company, very dutiful.”

It would not have been the first time he was mistaken for the other sex.

A white face peered around the bend of one thigh as Devmond discarded the ridiculous leather strapping. “It would be more practical not to wear anything at all,” the incredulous observation was almost comedic in timing and was followed by a rhetorical “wouldn’t it?”

The Harvest was not a subject to be taken lightly. Seven had dealt with Lhavitians and their hatred for the Widows his entire life. He hadn’t asked for it; he lived a human life with a human family and within the walls of their small home, he too was human. Devmond’s momentary scowl had caught his attention, but it had faded before he could discern it. Discontent settled shortly on Seven’s lips as he mulled over thoughts of tiny, dark Kalinor. Not unlike the residence he’d taken up in the belly of Stormhold; it was a cavern in itself, and no doubt, a few real spiders shared accommodations with him. “I admit the only things I know of Kalinor are things people have told me; I have never been there, myself.”

A light went on in Seven’s head and his heart plummeted painfully into his stomach. What if this man knew his mother? Fingers clutched the neck of the wine bottle and grew white-knuckled and clammy. The question rose as an apprehensive murmur in his throat. “Are there many halfbloods in Kalinor?” He could only imagine what she looked like, though he liked to think she was beautiful. More of the Widow blood coursed through her veins than it did in his; perhaps her arms were slender and long and white, her face sharp and her eyes as deep vermillion as his.

An intoxicated brain swam in his head, and he sat up too quickly. His vision went black and his pupils contracted. Often large, it was entirely unnerving when they shrank to black pinpricks in a sea of crimson. “Unh,” a hand shot to one temple and he blinked the haze away beneath a forced smile and trained laughter. “I should take it easy.” Seven’s other hand lifted the long-necked bottle from his lap and lilted it from side to side as if to lay blame on his wine.

[Devmond Incarnata]

“Well, I am unsure of Lana’s intentions,” Devmond said. “I, for one, could immediately tell of your gender, I don’t see many girl’s who wear that cut of trouser.” How tempting was it to be cruel to the lesser kin. Devmond would normally respond scathingly to Seven with, no, he had been recognized as both a boy and a fairy. There was no need to be too nice, the laugh that escaped the stunted fangs had been the boisterous tone of one who no longer felt any social embarrassment. Etertainment was delivering the insult that festered in the heart of those that needed, in his opinion, humbling. What stopped the carless cruelty was a sprout of charity that had been formed, not by his strangely open-minded father, but by a certain half-blood he owed more than the dwindling kindness that tickled the bones of his heartless ribcage.

Devmond chuckled at Seven’s notion that he might as well strip. This mirth was soon muffled by the next couple inquiries. It was funny, really. Hilarious, for Seven to ask suddenly about the half-bloods that sulked in Kalinor, when that violent encounter with her was a new wound on his memory. She had an unlikely longing for freedom never to be satisfied by the hatred of the world and her own kind. He retold the story, hours after she saved Devmond’s heirloom and his pride, to his father during their weekly hunting trip. Duratani advised his son that it was a direct message from Vitaras, a show of respect for the blood of all those who thought and talked. As always, Devmond was not so romantically metaphorical, and put the blame on his own selfish reasons for wanting to approach her. However, even months later in Syliras, Devmond saw the girl dance around his bed at night, her feet licking the carpet like fire and her eyes grasping nothing in the dark.

“There are a few,” Devmond said. “They do not stay for long. I am sure you share their treatment even when responsibility lies only with the parents. I was acquainted with another in Kalinor, although only briefly. She has never been to the surface and longed to be there. It is sad, but I do not think she will fare any better.” He had spoken rather bluntly, keeping any emotions hidden from his manners. Imagining the scars on the girl’s hands, he wondered what sort of blemishes Seven had to consider. This face was so innocent and friendly, unlike the hardened stone that was the mask to his stalking, nighttime phantom. It could be the consequence of an easier life than most half-breeds. Perhaps, he was even a little undeserving of the hesitant way which Devmond carried the conversation.

Seven suddenly rose to his feet, the bottle swaying in his hand. His face blanched, and here Devmond thought it could not get any paler, and a fake laugh bubbled against a hand that was rubbing above the pinpointed eyes. Rising slowly to his feet, the escort carefully put his arm around the younger man to steady him. “How often have you gone out drinking?” he whispered. “I helped you drink most of what’s now empty air in the bottle. You’re a bit of a light-weight.” Devmond tried not to smile broadly at the jibe, and wondered if all half-bloods had an innately low tolerance of alcohol. Dra-Nivias had expressed her dislike for what it did to her body. However, tt seemed anecdotal, but the hypothesis preoccupied the space where the worry that, at any moment, an upheaval of rejected bile could land on his bare feet.

A thought suddenly brightened up Devmond's pessimistic horizen with the gold flash of mizas. It would certainly be convenient to get on the good side of Tyras' by no effort on his own part. "Seven, you should think of spending your night here where at least a warm bed is safely guaranteed,” Devmond said. "Although Syliras is usually a safe city, there are still those beggars and troublemakers who would target a tipsy young man walking alone. You do not have the appearance of a fighter either, to be completely honest.”