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

[Gracen]

"Kenash," he averred, not repeating the fact that he was, in fact, a knight. A fallen one, perhaps, more akin to the dark paladins of Ravok than the shining Syliran variety. But the knights of Kenash did not pretend to goodness or evil, merely honor, and the wildness, the primal nature of summer. This one, this noblewoman, spun words out like the rainbow refractions of her empty glass, baiting him as a cat might. He could play games, of course, but she sussed him out with an uncanny, unerring eye. A dangerous enemy, this one, but he had no need for enemies; he had a three person list and that was enough. "You mock a man for finding women fair?" he asked, ignoring the questions he didn't want to answer. Let her think him too simple a two-handed man to juggle so many questions at once. "The desert is lonely and harsh, so should a man not seek a variety of oases? What was meant to be a quick triptych of revenge has become a tiresome saga. One learns to enjoy the distractions that life presents along the way. You should feel admired, lady, that a man dying of thirst would rather bask in your presence than reach for the water so close at hand."

[Izdihar]

The glass stilled in her fingers, wobbling on the curve of its base, empty mouth yawning toward him. A thoughtfulness softened the study of her countenance and after a moment her eyes cut up, away. A brief flurry, a soft slap of footsteps and their server appeared humbly out of the sunlight. "Jackal's Legs," Izdihar ordered, "Viper dosage and," she slanted her eyes at Gracen. A smile curved her mouth, crinkled her eyes again. No, she was not mocking him. "Leave off with the acacia honey." When Hajirah disappeared to see the order filled, Izdihar confided in her unexpected companion. "It'll draw scorn from the proprietor, that honey. Better to take your medicine and try to enjoy how bitter it can be. No?"

[Gracen]

The smile was slow to form, but when the proud proprietress answered with such alacrity, it started, snaking its way along his lips. Not sweet, not bitter, not sour, not salty -- it was like turgid as the waters of the river, and likely hiding as deadly a surprise. Jackal's Legs, no acacia honey. Well, he was no poet of Arumenic, but he could play with words too. "Honey, my tongue is long accustomed to the taste of bitterness."

[Izdihar]

Laughter bubbled out of her, unexpected and unassuming. It was water leaking from scorched earth or rather the sun blasted bones of a resurrected era surfacing through the sandy ruins of armageddon. History was in her laugh, though she was too young for it. It was the voices of all pure blooded Eypharians, all the same corroded by the constant flow of Tanroa's tears. "You seek surcease?" She wished to know, eyes intent upon his face. "Or hunt the hanged man's heaven? By your dress, I'd say you could claim a need for gold. You've come to the right haven, if so. There is plenty of gold glittering in Ahnatep. You don't need sharp eyes to spy it, but you do require a quick wit if you care to have it." Silence ticked as Harjirah reappeared to deliver Gracen's drink. When she flitted off once more, Izdihar continued. "I am Izdihar," she weighed him. "Daughter of the Westwinds. Whoever are you?"

[Gracen]

His smile was brief; he was not so proud of his quip as to appear proud of it. But he nodded thoughtfully at her words, kept his own to himself until after Hajirah quit their presence once more. He ignored the drink in favor of responding. "I am Gracen Haxo," he said, claiming the alias by which he had traveled since leaving his true name behind. "I always need gold," he admitted. "The road to vengeance is paved with it. I didn't know that at first, but it has been a long journey and I have learned that lesson. My skills are available in exchange for it, and my swords are quicker than my wits."

[Izdihar]

Consideration weighed Izdihar's regard to narrowing, too much thought in her expression for the free blowing fancies of a noblewoman. "Drink quick then," she decided with hand flipping back a dark panel of her skirt. A sandal clad foot bounced with sudden impatience and lights scattered from sunlight's refraction off the empty glass she pushed to the table's edge. "And walk with me, Gracen Haxo." Her chair scraped back and she rose. A handful of coins were pinched from a slit in her garment and pressed to the table top, left to gleam in payment for the elixirs and promise for the man who needed it for vengeance.

[Gracen]

He drowned then in the dregs of his Jackal's Legs, but only for a moment before he too stood. His only hesitation was whether she would appreciate a courtly, chivalrous gesture, or rather prefer that the mere human not rise above himself. Men who did so often lost their heads to keep them at a seemly height, but he needed to be taken seriously in business dealings, and so he offered her his arm. She was awfully little. "Whither you will, lady," he assured her. She held the majority of the cards here, but he was a savvy player too.