Raging Like a River

[Laszlo]

Winter 4th, 511 Past nineteen bells. It was lousy outside. And in Alvadas, that was saying something. The rain was torrential, pounding against the Sun and Star's façade and maintaining a loud, steady hum. It made conversation difficult, requiring close quarters or raised voices; the resulting cacophony was enough to make Laszlo's head ache badly. The storm soaked every inch of the city, making sure to seep into every crack in the Sun and Stars' ceiling. Fortunately, the building was two stories, so while water leaked into the upstairs bedrooms and bathing room, the downstairs sitting area was mostly dry and presentable—with exception to the front entrance. Because this was Alvadas, nothing could ever be simple. A raging storm couldn't just be a raging storm. The streets had filled with water and, somehow, large boulders and schools of live trout. Happily, the roads had become white river rapids, with waves of angry water thrashing around corners and crashing into buildings. As Laszlo watched the literal torrents outside, he spied a few hapless Alvads being carried away by the currents, screaming and flailing in the water. It was funny, only because he himself wasn't out there. A vivid flash of lightning, followed quickly by a sharp crack of thunder, briefly illuminated Laszlo's gaunt, slender form in front of the tavern's only floor level window. It was his only relief from the bustling tavern and his throbbing head, as if the storm itself was venting the anger that Laszlo had to keep repressed. Though he was exiting the seasonal hormone surge in his Symenestra blood, his nerves were still well frayed by recent events and the loitering taverngoers. Some of them had been here for hours. Many had arrived before the storm started, and the few who hadn't barely managed to make it inside as they had washed by. No one was all that willing to leave and take a chance with whatever fate awaited them on the rapids outside. While Laszlo couldn't really blame them, he wasn't particularly happy to have to tolerate them. "Oi, need a refill here!" "Coming," Laszlo mumbled venomously, at a volume too low for the patron to hear. As he crossed the room with a pitcher of ale in hand, he sent an amethyst glance to the darked hair halfblood waiting another table nearby. "If this keeps up, I doubt Victor will be home tonight," he called casually, tipping the pitcher to refill a wooden mug. Then again, who knows. He might scale the rooftops instead. Either way, Laszlo doubted the tavern's third owner would be much help tonight.

[Naama]

"..And then the scallywag managed to hook his trousers on a barbed bush, was stuck there for a good five chimes before I managed to pull him out. Mooned the entire party, he did, probably wasn't too happy I was laughing so hard either, now that I think about it. A hairy arse is not a very pleasant view, after all." There was a resounding chuckle from the table, as a tawny hand lifted a worn tankard to her lips for another swig. One rotund gentlemen with whiskers the color of wildfire and a face just as beat-red eyed her with piggy little eyes. "What was a lady doin' out in the wilds anyways? It's no place for a woman." Naama set her tankard down with an audible thump. "Don't assume that a Myrian would confine herself to household chores and mundane tasks, my gentleman. Or have you forgotten those darling tales of flesh-eating and bone ripping? I haven't." A rough, muscular hand snaked itself around her waist, pulling her against a robust chest. "On the contrary, a Myrian's only good for ruttin', an achievemen' for any man." A deep rumble of a laugh escaped him followed by a crunch and a bellow. There was a trickle of blood trailing down both nostrils, tainting his dirty blonde whiskers a darkened crimson. "Bloody, petching whore!" He hollered. "Did I do that? Clumsy me." Suddenly the table began to creak, its foundation screaming in protest by the force of the brute who tipped it over, sending mugs and tankards and fresh, wasted liquor all across the floorboards.

[Laszlo]

The table crashed onto its side, sending a thundering reverberation through the floorboards. Alarmed, Laszlo whirled about just in time to see a mess of cups clattering to the floor and coughing out their amber. A mixed feeling of financial dread and hot annoyance bloomed in his chest, sending shockwaves of anger coursing through his limbs and temples. "OI!" Laszlo called out furiously, demanding the culprit's attention before anymore destruction could be had. His violet eyes did a rapid sweep of the small tavern, quickly locking onto a large, generously-built man facing down a smaller, tattooed woman. The size of the male patron was enough to make Laszlo hesitate before proceeding, but hot blood and an ace in the sleeve emboldened the false Symenestra, and he took two long strides forward. His lip curled in a snarl to reveal his clenched teeth—two of which were lengthy and sharp enough to be considered fangs. It might have been intimidating, if you didn't know a Widow's bones were practically as fragile glass. "Get out!" the Ethaefal roared at the human, losing none of his volume or his anger. He had the advantage of height, and was able to cross eyes with the fellow rather evenly. There were no second chances for this man. Laszlo had seen enough violence in the last few days. He wasn't going to put up with it happening in his tavern. The offender, unimpressed, cocked an eyebrow and threw up his hands. "Seriously? Have you seen—" "Get. Out." Laszlo's narrowed eyes were as sharp as daggers, holding the gruff patron's own almost against his will. A foreign shiver of fear clawed its way down the man's spine, and made it difficult for him to think clearly. He was easily larger than Laszlo, and was certain that one single blow to the cheek could knock him out cold, but he got the feeling that would be a very bad idea. There was something off about this creepy Symenestra, and a bad feeling settled coldly in the pit of his stomach. Widows were poisonous or something, weren't they? He'd caught a look at those fangs. There was a change in Laszlo's facial expression, and he took a step forward. The patron countered with a quick step backward. Maybe he was better off changing his chances with the rapids in the street. "Fine, whatever. There are better women at the Rose, anyway." As the lumbering man departed, Laszlo glanced down briefly, closing his stinging eyes and rubbing at them to alleviate the painful sensation of djed that had empowered them. The fading echoes of Hypnotism magic drained from his head, leaving a mild headache and an irritating loss of focus. Composing himself, Laszlo ran a hand through his silver hair and turned his amethyst gaze at the unknown woman. "Azo," Laszlo growled at her, comparatively less harsh than his treatment of the her friend a moment earlier. He wasn't sure what race she was, though he was sure he'd seen nothing like her before. Completely black eyes gave her an unusual, mysterious charm. Whatever she was, she wasn't Symenestra. 'Azo' was a delightfully universal term. "I don't care what happened, but that man didn't wreck my bar just for no reason. Are you going to petching behave, or should I throw you out, too?"

[Naama]

Naama watched the exchange between spider and gorilla with thinly veiled curiosity. The fat man beside her had quivered in anxiety, his four chins bobbing where his lips smacked uneasily against each other, like a fish out of water. At least he managed to keep hold of his drink, whereas the Myrian's now laid forlornly in a pool of wasted ale. I should have shanked that bastard for such a crime. She didn't question how a man of his size and caliber was convinced so easily to step aside, especially when the torrential rain combined with Ionu's unpredictable influences had managed to create a tiny maelstrom in a vacant section of the ever-shifting city. Bitter loss was what she felt, her fingers clutching the handle of the tankard to peer inside, hoping for at least a swig left. She was sadly disappointed. Her eyes met the spider's as she glanced up, his words dripping with the poison he no doubt held in those fangs. Ah, but what a darling thing he is. "You have a bark, but do you have the bite to back it up?" She replied in a thick Myrian accent, her hand reaching out with a sickeningly sweet smile, brushing against his groin. "It was self-defense, sweet thing. From experience, words don't work with men like that. At least, not usually. I see you have quite the knack for intimidation, however." Naama expected animosity. He no doubt held contempt from these squatters and this incessant racket, and the mess this quarrel had made would cost him, as well. Reputation dictated hostility would follow wherever she tread, and she was used to it, possibly even reveled in it. "Tense and angered, poor thing. You deserve a break, I wager."

[Laszlo]

It was easy to stare at the woman, his lavender eyes snagged by her deep, jet black gaze, concealing his curious fascination behind a sharp, angry glare. She was tall—only a few inches shorter than he was—so Laszlo barely had to look down at her, which was already unusual considering the shorter stature of most of his acquaintances and friends. The dark hue of her skin contrasted strikingly to her white tattoos, which hinted at some deep cultural heritage that Laszlo could only speculate at. She was lovely, in the way a tiger is lovely if viewed from a distance, but standing this close to her made him uneasy. "Nh." A silvered eyebrow rose, and he glanced downward at her bold, outstretched hand. The angular features on Laszlo's slender face softened, dulling from frustration into dim annoyance. Her words were washed with silk: smooth, taunting, and familiar. Laszlo wondered silently if she was dangerous. After a moment of consideration, he swatted her hand away with an exasperated sigh. "Knock it off. I'm no mood to be toyed with. I'll get you another petching drink, if you want, but if you hit anyone else, I'm literally going to throw you from my tavern." Self-defense, she'd said, and how unnervingly poignant. That was the excuse Laszlo himself had used just a few days ago. Reaching around her, Laszlo used two clawed fingers to pluck up the empty mug by the handle. He sent a cautious glance around the rest of the tavern, just to check on the state of the crowd, but they had already forgotten the commotion. Even Seven's attention was elsewhere, with an arm full of collected mugs. He turned back to Naama, drawn once again into her dark, secretive eyes. It reminded him of the way an animal's eyes looked—blank, thoughtless, and wild. "What is it with women," he mumbled, beginning to turn away and head back to the bar. Though he was evidently talking to himself, some natural inclination to socialize made him lift the volume of his voice, inviting her to listen. "Like moths to flame." This wasn't the first time he'd been approached so unabashedly. Nassanye would be proud if Laszlo were on a Harvest.

[Naama]

Naama offered him a disappointed frown. What a sour old goat this one is. She leaned back in her chair, "My, my, how bitter the spider is tonight. You know, I heard Lhavitians like to toss you lot off their crystal high walls and watch them fall to their deaths. What a mighty fine sport that would make." She watched him closely, noting the claws, the silvery hair, the violet eyes. Symenestras were always such strange creatures, reclusive and agile. Like passing wisps that most individuals generally avoided, and yet here he was, serving a menagerie of fat men with their ale-stained tunics and rowdy young ladies and boys. "Make it a free drink, if you would. I should think I deserve it after all." But he had already turned, muttering something barely audible above the conglomeration of voices in the room. "Hey!" She growled, "Did you hear what I said?" And as he walked away, Naama grasped the nearest tankard, which happened to be in the hands of the fat spectator no longer. He garbled something incoherent as she chucked both the tankard and its contents at the Symenestra.

[Laszlo]

A sharp impact exploded on the back of Laszlo's skull, followed by a hot wave of pain and a dousing of warm ale into his thin, graphite hair. The Symenestra stumbled forward, a clawed hand shooting out to grab the bar and save himself from kissing the floor. Some of the patrons let out excited howls amid a shuffling chorus of amused laughter. For a moment, Laszlo hung there in his humiliation, hunched over and digging his sharp nails into the wooden corner of the bar. Finally he straightened, his tall, lean form turning around smoothly. Something had lit aflame in his chest, and it showed in his violet-rimmed eyes. His eyelids flickered as they began to burn with djed. Be still he commanded her silently, attempting to momentarily stun and confuse her with a hypnotic order. She was well built, and tall. In a fight, she would win against him a hundred times over. Laszlo didn't want to fight her. Hoping to advance before she could think better of it, the false Symenestra glided gracefully across the narrow room again, approaching her directly. The back of his head stung, and a good portion of his silvery hair was drenched and dripping with ale. His pride was easily tarnished, but Laszlo wasn't worried about it. His patience with insane women had run out. Forget polite tolerance. He was going to do something. Not that he hadn't done something the last time a woman had lost her wits in his company, but it was his hesitation before that drove him to err so badly. This time, he'd take initiative in taming a shrew. Laszlo wasn't sure how he would go about that, or what he would even do when he was close enough to Naama again, but he was sure he'd think of something! "Is something broken in your head?" Slender fingers fastened themselves around each of her arms, squeezing down as he pushed her back into the table. Laszlo pushed back further, attempting to lean her backward and compromise her balance. "Are your eyes black because your skull is empty? What is it with you women? So desperate for someone to pay attention to you, to look at you. What is so difficult about conducting yourself with a little humility? A little decency? If I can do it, surely someone as simple as you can." He could kill her here, if he wanted. The bitter venom trapped within his fangs had not for the first time dripped upon his tongue. All he had to do was give her a little bite and then toss her outside. She'd never be a problem again. Laszlo wrinkled his nose. The Symenestra mind produced such ugly thoughts. He'd never be mad enough to grace them with the weight of consideration. "I do need a break." His hands unclenched and drew away, and Laszlo ran his bony fingers through his dark hair. A moment later he was wrenching them free from wet, tangled knots. "Get out of my bar. I'm bored of this. Go petch up someone else's evening."

[Naama]

She could not defend herself against persuasion, not when it was fueled by woven threads of the djed she knew nothing about. His will was her will, and as he spoke, her body complied, laying tranquil against the table. My, my, but he does have pretty eyes. Violet, like violets. She grinned stupidly to herself, even as the spider loomed over her, those venomous fangs dangerously close. Dangerous, but they'd make amazing lockpicks. He spoke to her as if she was the savage she'd always been; untamed, unbroken. The mistake was letting her go. Naama's knee connected to his groin with a vicious strike, while her unrelenting hand took him by the neck, clenching. And with only a Myrian's force did she slam him against the table, their roles reversed. The kiss of a blade met his throat, pressing the porcelain skin until beads of red began to form. "If you so much as bare those lovely fangs of yours I will slice what little manhood you have clean off, spider." Then she dared the kiss. It was swift and lacking any intensity, yet she broke away with a frown. "I pictured you to taste sweeter than that, what a disappointment." The stares she received from the table beside them provided all the evidence she needed to know they'd been intrigued. Naama stood straight, dusted off her leather vest and gestured toward the spider. "Five hundred coins to the man that shows this spider how to properly treat a lady. Any takers?" Several chairs creaked back heavily.

[Laszlo]

Before Laszlo could even process the shooting pain from his groin and lurch forward, the edge of a table was suddenly and painfully jutting into his back. His entire spine ached, and Laszlo knew that if Naama had thrown him at a slightly different angle, she might have easily crushed half of his ribcage. A sharp, hot line of pain across his neck, coupled with the blur of her fist at the corner of his eye, told him of the knife splitting his skin. His entire body aching massively, Laszlo's world disconnected with reality and receded to involve just him and the woman. He couldn't move; he was entirely hers. Fear bled in to replace his gall, and it showed in the lavender of his surprised, wide eyes. She leaned forward and pressed together their lips. Laszlo's brow furrowed and he stared at the unfocused shadow of her face in confusion. That was an odd way to top it all off. When Naama drew back, their lips parted noisily. A moment later, he was let go. Laszlo's lissome frame crumpled like a length of loose ribbon onto the rough, dirty tavern floor. Protecting his aching manhood with one hand, he wiped at his neck with other, wincing. Bright red was smeared across his ashen palm. Then Naama's challenge brought half the tavern to its feet. His hand dropped in dumb annoyance. Stumbling once, the Ethaefal stood himself up. He flashed an incredulous look at the tattooed woman, and then turned to his patrons. "Sit down, you fools!" he ordered at the half dozen or so who'd been intrigued by the offer, adding a dose of hypnotism to make himself more convincing. This time, as the djed danced off his tongue and flowed through his jaw, it hurt. The words seemed to echo in his own head, but he ignored it. An irony flavor touched the back of his throat. "She doesn't have that kind of money. She's only goading you. Go back to your beers and mind your own!" Laszlo relaxed, leaning against the table as the bar's customers sat back down. His mouth had grown wet, so he swallowed—and tasted blood. He'd overdone it, tonight. He should probably stop. A pair of thin fingers felt as his bleeding neck again, pulling away a fresh blot of red. The false Symenestra licked at it, then straightened and looked up at her. His head tilted to the side, causing a curl of graphite to fall across one amethyst eye. Goddess, this woman was tall. Women shouldn't have been at his eye level. "You're quite the vixen, aren't you?" Laszlo took an unabashed step toward her, despite the injuries he'd already received. If it weren't for the hypnotism he continued to abuse, keeping Naama's eyes focused on his, he probably wouldn't have been so bold. "Well, I have disrespected you. You caught me at a bad time—perhaps I can make this right. Here, come with me. We can work something out to your favor." At this point, Laszlo might have led her to the tavern's exit. Perhaps even coaxed her to jump into the Alvadan rapids on her own. But his eyes burned, he tasted blood, and his whole body ached. Lately, he'd been growing used to pain, but it was all kinds of unpleasant. There was one thing, however, that Laszlo knew would help take his mind off of it. It always worked before. With the encouraging sweep of his black-clawed hand, Laszlo guided her toward the doorway to the stairs. He left the mess behind him, spilled drinks and overturned table, to be dealt with later. Laszlo even opened the door for her, then closed it behind him. Confined here now in this tight, unlit space at the foot of the stairs, the tavern might as well have ceased to exist. "Keep the knife," he suggested cryptically as one hand closed around her arm in the dark. His fingertips slid softly over her skin, though she couldn't know they were burning with djed. "It'll make things more interesting." That slender hand tightened and pressed her arm to the wall. Laszlo's tall frame followed afterward, stepping insistently into hers to rob her of balance. Another hand grabbed her shoulder, sharp nails nearly piercing her skin, and suddenly he breathing against her neck.

[Naama]

The myrian's lips curled into a disapproving frown as the men lumbered back to their drinks and their seats, dismissing her offer as a mere ruse. And so what if it was? I certainly look trustworthy enough. Naama shot the spider a vexing glare, shoving herself off the table she'd been leaning against, her hopes of watching the wily creature smeared all over the floor effectively crushed. "Well aren't you a clever little thing," She eyed his approach, yielding a crooked smile, "and bold too. I like that." Her black gaze remained transfixed, unable to relocate anywhere other than his beautiful amethyst pair, glimmering like gems. I could pluck those right out, just like his fangs. At his beckoning words, she followed him as easily as a common tavern wench, "That's right, you have. But what do you--Oh... I see." The smile was back on her lips, even as she was ushered inside. The door shut, and suddenly they were very close. Suddenly his fingers were trailing across her skin, igniting a fire she was all too familiar with. "I'm never too far from a knife," She replied, jerking him closer so that their lips met again, her teeth grazing flesh. There was an audible rip as the edge of the blade sliced through the fabric of his pants. "I hope those weren't your favorite pair," She muttered cheekily, then reached down to grasp at his manhood. Even through the tender touching, the lips on flesh, the eagerness she felt in her thighs, her mind still wandered to the warrior she'd come to spend an unusual amount of time with. Is it betrayal if I haven't proclaimed love? The thought nagged at her, yet in the wake of primal lust, it was pushed to the back of her mind, until only her present ministrations retained her attention.